A Different Kind of Hero
by crashingthroughtime
Summary: In which Eragon finds himself in New York City, and the Avengers are out of their depth.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I own neither Marvel, nor Christopher Paolini._

 _._

* * *

The light didn't end, but after a few seconds Eragon determined that it was no longer so bright as to be painful, and he blearily forced his eyes open. He was on his hands and knees, huffing; Brisingr was lying a few feet away from him, its sapphire blade glistening with both magic and sunlight.

The ground was strange, he noticed – nothing like the trampled dirt he'd been fighting on just moments before. It was stone, but like no stone he'd seen before, and although it was flat, it was not smooth – riddled with pockmarks and with a texture more akin to the rocky beaches he remembered encountering outside Teirm.

Eragon found himself wondering at the ground for a few moments while he caught his breath. He rubbed his glove-covered thumb across its surface, and stared fascinated when a small piece of gravel broke free.

 _Where am I?_

With a sudden rush of adrenaline, Eragon came to his senses and sprung to his feet, grabbing Brisingr on the way and whirling around, scanning his surroundings for potential enemies. _SAPHI_ —

His mental cry was cut short as he froze, his mind seeming to shut down as it tried to work out what it was seeing.

In front of him stood a huge building, the height of a mountain, made out of metal and glass. Before his eyes could follow it upward, Eragon smelled smoke, and turned to see what looked like a pile of painted metal, twisted beyond recognition, a fire erupting from its center. A crowd of people in strange, colorful clothes were running from it, screaming, ( _screaming,_ he realized, he hadn't been able to hear before now), while a huge black wagon, made of metal and emitting an ear-piercing shriek, suddenly appeared, moving on its own to position itself between Eragon and the smoldering wreck. Or perhaps Eragon and the fleeing people.

The vehicle made a screeching sound as it came to a halt, and immediately following Eragon heard the same sound again, coming from all around him. He spun, still holding Brisingr aloft, to find more gigantic buildings, more heaps of metal, (much more – this side seemed to have an entire wall of metal, although it wasn't burning), more terrified people, and more metal wagons.

 _All this metal? What is this place? The cleverest of dwarves couldn't build structures that high. Why is everything so chaotic? And... grey?_

Eragon flicked his gaze upwards to determine that he _was_ outside, (those buildings were _unimaginably_ tall), and back down when the sun, directly overhead, threatened to blind him. He was aware of how fast his heart was beating – the screams and strange shrieking were impossibly loud to his sensitive ears, and he could have sworn he was seeing flashing lights of red and blue forming a circle around him, although from where they were coming he had no idea.

 _Magic_ , he thought, and then, _SAPHIRA!_

There was no response, but before he could begin to worry, or even properly panic, doors were being thrown open from the vehicles surrounding him, and dozens of men in strange black uniforms, black helmets covering their features, jumped out from the interiors and hid behind the doors. A strange series of _clicks_ could be heard over the overwhelming background noise. The men held steady, each pointing some sort of black device directly at Eragon, the natures of which he had no desire to find out.

He spun, slowly, in a circle, bringing Brisingr with him. The screams had all but died out, although there was still a great deal of noise, and Eragon could no longer see anything on this strange, lifeless ground other than black metal and black men. _Warriors_ , he thought, _Men of Galbatorix. Why else would he send me here? They must be powerful magicians, but those lights don't seem to be affecting me at all. Perhaps they're meant to be intimidating?_

"DROP THE WEAPON!" a gruff, decidedly human voice rang out from somewhere to Eragon's left. He turned to find a single man standing upright, and not wearing a helmet, though still pointing his own black device towards Eragon. "AND GET ON YOUR KNEES. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED."

 _Well that much is evident._

The man didn't sound scared, Eragon noted, just angry. _He must have magic,_ he thought, frowning, _or be very well disciplined. Or perhaps he doesn't know who I am?_

"Who are you?" Eragon directed towards the man. He was wearing a strange black hat in lieu of his helmet, and had an unremarkable face, although half of it was hidden behind his raised weapon. It seemed strange to Eragon that the commander of an army should be less protected than his soldiers, but it certainly wasn't the strangest thing about this place. "Where am I?"

"Drop the weapon, or I swear to God I will fill you so full of bullets there won't be a piece left of you to bury!"

"Bullets?" Eragon asked, confused.

"The sword! On the ground! Now!"

His threat seemed real enough, but there was no way for Eragon to know if he was actually in any danger, considering his wards, without reading the man's mind – and, considering the likelihood of him being currently surrounded by powerful magicians, Eragon couldn't bring himself to try. But still, his adrenaline was pumping from the battlefield he'd just been pulled from, and he was surrounded by potential threats – somehow, he couldn't bring himself to let go of Brisingr, either.

Eragon worked his jaw, keeping his face impassive, and maintained his grip on his weapon. He locked eyes with the man who had been speaking. "You'll forgive me if I do not comply, but I can assure you I wish you no harm should you return me from whence I came."

"And you expect me to believe that bullshit?" The man seemed to be growing more agitated. "I don't care what magic-ass planet you come from, you blow up half a street corner in my city and you pay for it, you hear!? I'm not giving you no favors, you either drop the damn sword and come quietly or I blow your brains out here and now. You hear that, freak!? Which one's it gonna be?"

Eragon contemplated whether or not he found this man threatening. And then he readjusted his grip on Brisingr and started forward with easy, unhurried steps.

"FREEZE!" the man screamed. And then, when Eragon did not, "FIRE!"

The noise was deafening, and the tiny pieces of metal flung at Eragon were too unexpected and fast for him to dodge, but he was pleased to find that his wards stopped each and every one of them dead in midair, a few centimeters from his body. They fell to the strange stone ground with a melodious tinkle as Eragon watched, fascinated. _What a strange idea for a weapon_ , he thought. _Like a slingshot, only powered by some sort of explosion, if the smoke is anything to go by_.

Explosion after explosion sounded around him, and bullet after bullet was easily stopped by his wards, until Eragon had almost reached the door the helmet-less man was standing behind.

"RETREAT!" the man screamed, and the crouching men around him all raised their weapons and fled. Eragon huffed. _Cowards. Will they not even try to best me in combat?_

The commander, however, stayed, continuing to fire at Eragon's approaching figure. He backed up, step by step, as Eragon reached the vehicle and moved around it, careful not to touch the open door. Then Eragon sheathed Brisingr, and held his hands out to the sides in a submissive gesture.

"Please," he said, loudly, so as to be heard over the deafening noise. "I mean you no harm."

"Like hell you don't," the man growled, although he stopped firing. He added, as if as an afterthought, "What the hell are you, anyway?"

Eragon stopped moving, and the man followed suit. "That doesn't matter. Are you in league with Galbatorix? And before you answer, know that if you lie, I will know."

Which wasn't strictly true, but it sounded threatening enough.

The man didn't flinch, just continued to stare at Eragon with the one eye not hidden behind his weapon. After a pause, he responded with, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I'm in the NYPD, kid. Whatever the hell superhero-alien cult you're in, you gotta deal with that yourselves. And I would let you deal with it yourself, only you just teleported your scrawny ass into the middle of a busy intersection in the middle of Manhattan and killed a lot of people, and someone's gonna have to hold you accountable for it. And," he was smiling now, "I reckon she's the first on the list."

Eragon had been about to say that he hadn't _meant_ to kill anyone with his appearance in this strange land, and that really it wasn't his fault at all, when he detected motion behind him and whirled to grab a thin wrist, stopping a small curved knife inches from his abdomen. _Wards might be low,_ he reminded himself, _and who knows if it's enchanted._

His attacker pulled back and revealed herself to be a red haired woman, though unlike any woman Eragon had ever seen. Her hair was cut short, well above her shoulders. She wore an outfit of black leather that even Arya would have balked at, revealing herself so openly Eragon wondered if perhaps she had been caught mid-dressing. Her tight fitted leggings were accented with several thigh holsters, presumably holding more knives, as they seemed too small for the sort of weapon the commander was carrying, and she carried no sword. As she began to circle him, Eragon drew his.

"Thank you, Captain," the woman said, not taking her eyes off of Eragon. "I think I can take it from here."

With no warning, the woman sprang at him, knife flashing as she attempted to stick it in the side of his neck. Eragon stepped to the side and brought Brisingr around in a wide swing. The woman jumped off the ground and flipped over it, landing just as Eragon struck her right hand with a quick upward thrust. The woman cried out and dropped her weapon, the small knife flying behind her and clattering to the ground. Before she could react, Eragon had flicked his sword to her windpipe.

The woman froze, clearly surprised at Eragon's enhanced speed. It dawned on Eragon, suddenly, that she really had no idea who he was.

The woman held her chin high, staring at him with fiery eyes. "Who are you?"

She seemed far too calm for being on the brink of death. "This is a Rider's sword," he told her. "It matters not what wards or armor you've placed about yourself. Its enchantments will prevail."

The woman cocked her head and fought a smirk. "I just want to know who you are and what you're doing here."

"And you thought to accomplish that by killing me?"

"I saw the shooting. If a bullet doesn't stop you, I had a feeling my knife wouldn't either."

"Then why did you attack me?"

"I was just trying to get you down. You're a threat." She tried to pull away from Brisingr, but Eragon slid its edge along her neck to rest just under her ear. It left a thin trail of blood.

 _No wards_. And sure enough, a quick glance at her hand showed another wound, steadily dripping blood.

"I want to know how I got here."

"I have no idea how you got here."

"Where I am, then. And who you are."

The woman swallowed, but otherwise showed no sign of fear. "I am Agent Romanoff, of the Strategic Homeland Intervention and Enforcement Logistics Division." At Eragon's bewildered expression, she smirked. "I work for the government. And you're currently standing in downtown Manhattan."

Eragon looked around. The street was completely deserted of people. The smoldering wreck on the other side of the circle of vehicles was still smoking. There were several other vehicles of various colors and sizes, some with doors still open, all seemingly abandoned. The blue and red lights were still flashing and Eragon realized that they were coming from some sort of lanterns on the top of the black vehicles.

There was shattered glass everywhere, mostly, he figured, from the surrounding buildings. The air reeked of smoke and something fouler. In the distance he could make out a rumble of noise, but he couldn't begin to guess at its source, and for the moment it didn't seem threatening.

He looked back at the red haired woman. She was still staring at him proudly, as though daring him to cut her throat.

She reminded him, suddenly, of Arya, and he knew at once that he wouldn't, no matter that she was trying to kill him a moment ago. Besides, this land was foreign, and strange, and he had no idea how to get back to Belatona.

 _I'm needed there_ , he thought suddenly, and then, "Saphira."

The woman frowned. "What?"

After a moment's hesitation Eragon removed his sword from her neck and sheathed it. "Do not try to kill me," he warned, turning away and scanning the decimated street. "You would surely fail."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," the woman responded. And then something sharp was being stabbed into his neck, and the world was going hazy, and then black. Eragon didn't remember hitting the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

" _What do people call you, kid?"_

 _Eragon hesitated. "Shadeslayer, mostly."_

 _Agent Romanoff raised her eyebrows, but responded with, "Well then,_ Shadeslayer _."_

 _Eragon thought perhaps she was fighting a smile._

" _I have a feeling you're going to fit in here just fine."_

* * *

Steve was woken far too early for his liking by the incessant buzzing of his cell phone.

"Shut up," he mumbled at it, his face still half hidden in his pillow.

The phone did not shut up.

With a groan Steve pulled himself up just enough to reach over and grab his phone from where it sat on his bedside table. It told him it was 4:24 am. The call was from Tony Stark.

With another groan Steve flopped back down onto his pillow and reluctantly answered. "What on earth are you doing up this early, Tony?"

"Good morning to you too, sunshine. And I'm not. I'm up this late. And don't blame me when you're deciding whose car to egg, it was all Fury's idea."

Tony sounded decidedly too peppy.

"What was?"

"Calling us all in. Something's come up."

Steve was sitting up now, blearily rubbing the sleep from his face. "Is it your fault this time?"

"Not quite. Listen, we're all meeting at the tower asap, except for Barton, who wasn't invited because he's currently halfway around the world, and Thor, who wasn't invited because Fury doesn't know how to send trans-dimensional invitations yet. So really just the four of us, which is kind of pathetic, when you think about it. Although I think Fury's probably working on that trans-dimensional invite thing, considering how stressed the guy looks. I also think you should probably hurry. Do you want me to send a car?"

Steve stepped over to the window and pulled aside the curtain, staring out onto the dark street below.

"Yeah, I guess that'd be faster than taking a bus." He turned away. "Do you have any idea what—"

"So yeah, I'll see you soon. Oh, and the car's already waiting outside your apartment, by the way. So, get your ass in gear. We've got coffee."

"Tony—" The call ended before Steve could get anything else out. He stared down at his phone, which had already returned to a blank display. Then he sighed, and went to go brush his teeth.

* * *

Half an hour later the car, Steve safely enclosed, pulled into Stark Tower's underground lot.

Avengers _T_ _ower_ , Steve mentally corrected himself for the umpteenth time. _Never going to get used to that._

The ride across town went smoother than usual, probably due to the early hour, but Steve was still regretting that whatever had "come up" hadn't had the decency to wait a few hours. He was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open or string together a coherent thought, and there was a sort of dull ache at the base of his skull that he had a feeling wouldn't be going away any time soon.

It was really his own fault, though, considering how late he'd gone to sleep. He had been almost done with his book. He was regretting it now.

(How Tony ever managed to function, he would never understand.)

The ride up the elevator seemed to take longer than usual, (Jarvis made several attempts at starting a conversation, all of which Steve brushed off), and then he was stepping into Tony's private penthouse.

The man in question was bustling around the wet bar, (Already!? The sun hadn't even risen...!), carrying on a quiet conversation with Natasha, who was seated at one of the bar stools. At the _ding_ of the elevator, both turned.

"Well look who bothered to show up. Heya, Cap. Fancy meeting you here."

"Isn't it a little early for drinks, Stark? Morning, Natasha."

"Yes, it is. That's why I'm making coffee."

"With only a shot or two of vodka, I'm sure," Natasha quipped. She turned as Steve sat beside her. "Morning, Rogers. How was the drive?"

Somehow, Steve got the distinct impression that she was laughing at him. He grimaced and fought the impulse to put his head on the bar. "Fantastic, thanks for asking."

A mug of black coffee was placed in front of him just as a pair of men, deep in conversation, entered the room.

Natasha smirked and sipped at her own mug. "Well, I'm willing to bet you've had worse."

"Captain!" a familiar voice called, and Steve turned to see Nick Fury heading towards him, accompanied by Bruce Banner. "Glad you could make it."

 _As if I had a choice._ "Fury," Steve nodded.

"If you fellas don't mind, I'd like to get straight to business. We have a potential crisis on our hands."

 _Then why didn't you brief us on the way, Fury?_

The man stood at the end of the bar while Banner took his seat next to Steve, the two of them exchanging a polite nod. Then Fury began.

"As some of you know, yesterday afternoon downtown Manhattan saw some sort of... _disturbance_." As he spoke, Fury pulled out a device, similar to the ones Steve was always seeing Tony fiddle with, and pulled up a holographic photo, presumably from a security camera, of a city street Steve didn't recognize. "All we know right now is that an explosion of incredible power, and unlike anything we've seen before, appeared from seemingly nowhere and destroyed nearly half a city block."

Fury pressed a button on his gadget and the video began moving, showing an ordinary street filled with cars for a few seconds before, all at once, the screen went white. Steve stared wide-eyed, thinking. He sipped his coffee.

Finally the image came back, this time showing demolished buildings and cars, some of which had simply... vanished. The street was full of smoke, such that the details were a bit difficult to make out, but Steve noticed several injured people fleeing the scene. He spoke up.

"Was this what I was called about, yesterday?" He had received an urgent message from SHIELD while he was out at lunch, but by the time he'd arrived in Manhattan the situation had apparently been under control. But then, he thought he remembered hearing about—

"The kid, yes." Fury turned off the holograph and gestured to Natasha. "The two of you were immediately called in, because we received reports of a 'strange boy' appearing from the center of the blast. We assumed he was some kind of enhanced and reacted accordingly. Correctly, as it turned out. All the cameras close enough to witness it were damaged or destroyed, but luckily Romanoff was in the area and managed to confront him."

Steve turned to look at Natasha. She was rubbing her neck with a bandaged hand that he hadn't noticed earlier.

"Sorry," this was Banner, "I thought you said you got him in custody?"

"We did," she answered painfully.

"Then who was he?" Tony asked. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed. He looked deep in thought.

 _Probably wondering about that explosion_ , Steve guessed.

"We don't know." Fury pressed a few more buttons and a new image popped up, this one a head-shot of a teenage-looking boy. "Facial recognition software came up dry. Any of you fellas recognize him?"

Steve studied the image, committing the features to memory. The kid was unlike any teenager he'd ever seen – he was intense, his brows pulled down into a near "v" shape, his high cheekbones and pointed chin giving him a fay-like appearance. His eyes were slanted, like a cat's. Other than that he seemed normal – just lightly tanned skin, long, light brown hair that swept unevenly across his forehead, and brown eyes.

Fury broke the silence with a, "Didn't think so." He swept across the screen a few times to pull up a full body picture, (the boy was standing unhappily in what was clearly a cell, arms crossed and glaring), as well as close ups of his clothing and a blue sword.

"As you can see, it doesn't exactly look like he's from the 21st century. We didn't have time to examine any materials too closely, but the outfit itself should say enough."

"The outfit" consisted of mostly medieval-looking armor. Apparently he hadn't been allowed to keep any of it, because Fury pulled up some close ups of a shirt of mail, gauntlets, and half a dozen other pieces that Steve couldn't name, all sitting on a metal table.

"What's he called?" Tony asked.

Oddly enough, it was Natasha who answered. "Apparently he calls himself 'Shadeslayer.'"

Tony snorted. Steve glared at him. _At least it's better than "Iron Man."_

"He's not to be taken lightly," Fury warned, also looking in Tony's direction. "Romanoff definitely thinks he's enhanced, and he's already killed 12 people – most of whose bodies haven't even been found. Everything within a dozen feet of the blast's center was vaporized."

"We don't _know_ he killed 12 people," Natasha countered, seeming uncomfortable. "I didn't actually see him hurt anyone..."

"He's also bullet-proof, apparently, and managed to beat my _best agent_ in one-on-one combat." Fury leaned forward on his elbows, staring at each of the Avengers in turn with his one good eye. "He is a threat, and needs to be treated as such."

"So, what exactly do you want from us?" Banner asked, gesturing at himself. "I mean, what, do you want us to, to... study him, figure out what he is, did you try _asking_ —"

"It's a little more complicated than that."

"How so?" Steve asked. He mimicked Fury and leaned forward against the bar, his fingers wrapped around his coffee mug. It was barely still warm.

"Well, A, this definitely isn't an ordinary kid. We didn't have time to run any tests on him, but..." Fury pulled up a new picture, this one of the side of the boy's head, his hair being pulled away. The boy's ears were about twice as long as they should be, and pointed.

Steve stared, but Tony was unimpressed. He had resumed fiddling, opening and closing cupboards, removing and replacing glasses.

"Alright, so he's enhanced, it screwed up his body, we get it. Let's get to the part where you need our help."

"Either that, or he's not human at all." There was an ominous sort of tone to Natasha's voice.

Tony pressed his lips together and kept fiddling. "Still don't see how this is a 'code-red,' 'Avengers-assemble' kind of deal if you've already got the kid locked up. I mean, not that I don't love you all to pieces, but I'm a busy man..."

Fury grimaced, and Steve's heart sank.

"Well, that's complication number two."

Tony groaned. "Oh, don't say it. Don't even say it."

"He's gone. Escaped from his cell, from the highest security prison in the country. Somehow the surveillance was thrown out of wack, and by the time we got down there the door was wide open and the kid was nowhere to be seen. A regular Houdini."

"What about the guards?" Steve asked.

"All unconscious, all with no recollection of what happened." He paused. "Romanoff was down there talking to him just minutes before it happened."

Steve wondered why that was relevant, unless she had gotten some sort of vital information out of him, but before he could ask, Bruce spoke up.

"So you want us to bring him in," he confirmed.

"I want you to keep him from hurting anyone else, whatever that entails. You saw that explosion yourselves. Twelve dead. Six more in the hospital in critical condition. There were traffic lights _on the ground_. There were traffic lights that turned into _dust_. We don't know his MO. We don't know what he's after. And until we do, my top priority is keeping the people of this city safe."

There was a way that Fury said that last line, almost as though he had rehearsed it and was saying it from memory. Steve wondered how many times the director had been in situations that required him to say those exact words.

"Alright," Tony begrudgingly agreed. He slid Fury's holographic device, still displaying the picture of Shadeslayer's pointed ear, across the bar and began flicking through all the information SHIELD had managed to acquire before the teen's disappearance. "Where do we start?"


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Sorry I took so long to update this, I was too busy watching the entirety of Supernatural. Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed/followed/favorited! It really means a lot to me. Feel free to drop a review letting me know what you think.~

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* * *

" _So, what's up with your sword?"_

" _Huh?" Eragon glanced up at the unfamiliar woman who had just entered the room. He had noticed her earlier, but his small chambers always seemed to have a steady flow of men and women entering and leaving, and so he hadn't paid her much attention. Besides, the one-eyed man, who Eragon had learned was called Nicholas Fury, had recently provided him with a large, heavy book detailing the history of this world, and Eragon was too fascinated to care about much else._

 _The women gestured at Brisingr, where it was leaning against the wall, sheathed, a few feet away. "We ran some scans of it, and it turns out it's releasing some kind of radiation that we don't recognize. Know anything about that?"_

 _Eragon blinked once. "Well, it is enchanted."_

* * *

Bruce had been in Tony Stark's lab for over forty-eight hours.

He had managed to catch a few winks here and there – nodding off in his chair, passing out on a nearby couch until Tony inevitably woke him with a triumphant or frustrated exclamation, and once or twice, he was convinced, actually falling asleep standing up – but around hour thirty the excitement wore off and the wear and tear and started to get to him. Whether it was because of his lack of sleep or the extended time period in which he was in close proximity to Tony, he was pretty miserable.

Tony, meanwhile, hadn't slept at all – at least, not as far as Bruce was aware – since Fury had entrusted them with the task of finding the " _Shadeslayer_ ," or, as Tony had taken to calling him, the "Rogue Knight."

"It's ridiculous," he had said, waving a hand dismissively. "It makes him sound like some kind of B-list super-villian trying way too hard to impress his mom, whose basement he probably lives in."

"To be fair," Bruce had felt the need to point out, "the kid's, like, sixteen. He probably does still live with his parents."

"Which makes him even more pathetic."

Regardless of the questionable rationale behind the title, Bruce had to admit that _Rogue_ _Knight_ seemed a more fitting description of the armor-clad fellow, and at some point in the delirium had slipped into using it. Tony seemed particularly smug about it.

The man might not have slept, but he was incredibly energized, seeming to both survive and thrive on the gallons of coffee and energy drinks the two of them had been consuming. With each passing hour Tony's frustration increased, thereby increasing his determination to find the knight. As best as Bruce could tell, this resulted in a kind of limitless maniacal energy.

Bruce, meanwhile, was just getting tired.

"C'mon, buddy, work with me here," Tony called across the rows of equipment. Bruce glanced over at him, vaguely wondering if the comment was addressed to him or Jarvis. When his silence didn't prompt any further reaction save Tony's indistinct mutterings, he assumed the latter.

Wasn't there something he was supposed to be doing? He felt like there was something he was supposed to be doing.

Bruce checked his watch and groaned, wearily rubbing a hand across his face. "It's almost six," he told his friend, sure that Tony was too engrossed in his work to be keeping track of the time.

Sure enough, the response was, "AM or PM?"

"AM. Fury's going to be here in an hour."

Tony continued staring at the holograph in front of him, zooming in to view the molecular structure of the blue sword's blade. "Hang on a minute, let me just double check and see if I care."

"Are we going to have _anything_ to show him?" Bruce asked, pulling out a handwritten list of their findings the two had started early on, in an effort to keep their heads on straight. It wasn't very long, and the second half or so was all in Tony's handwriting, each bullet point suggesting that Nick Fury shove various objects up certain orifices. Bruce grimaced and set it back down, resting his head in his hands for a minute.

Fury had given the men two days to find the knight. What exactly had he been expecting of them?

A sudden _ding_ from across the lab drew Bruce out of his thoughts, and he looked up hopefully. Maybe _this_ time...

"Calibration's done. Again," Tony announced, turning to pull up a second screen, this one depicting a map of the world, a blinking red dot hovering over New York. Tony immediately made a selection of the area.

"And...?"

"And... nada." He demonstrated by gesturing at the map, and the solid red line cutting a path from Manhattan to SHIELD headquarters. "Same old same old. He appeared _with_ the sword. He _brought_ his sword to SHIELD. And then..." Tony snapped his fingers. "Poof."

"So we've got nothing," Bruce confirmed, feeling remarkably dejected.

But then again, maybe he had a reason to be. It seemed there was just no getting around it; either their Rogue Knight had somehow left his sword at the prison, hidden from Fury, or did something to it once he reclaimed it which halted the energy release, or else escaped with it to another dimension – but whatever Tony and Bruce did, however they reworked their equations or reprogrammed the satellites, or even in a fit of frustration scrapped everything and tried again, the trail always ran cold.

It was enough to put Bruce on edge. It was enough to drive Tony _insane_.

"Maybe the little bastard'll have something more for us to play with," Tony halfheartedly suggested, sounding like he was clutching at straws. He was staring desperately at a screen full of equations now, his arms folded. As Bruce watched, he bit down on one of his knuckles and frowned spectacularly.

"Maybe," Bruce agreed, although he wasn't entirely sure what to. His head sure did feel funny.

"Anything turn up in those cameras?"

"What? Oh, no. Still nothing." Bruce pulled out a second program that they'd been running from the get-go, using the cellular-based cameras that SHIELD had access to on the off chance that their Rogue Knight showed his face in public. It seemed that the kid was either laying low, or exceptionally clever.

"Forty-eight hours," Tony muttered to himself. He spun slowly in a circle, taking in the screens of data surrounding him. "Forty-eight hours, and we don't even have a clue. I mean, c'mon, he's just one little freakshow with a fancy sword, right? Right?"

"Right."

"All of SHIELD's resources..." Tony trailed off, shaking his head. Then he slammed a fist against his desk.

Bruce jumped.

Tony groaned. "We should have done this. We should have been able to do this, Bruce."

"C'mon, Tony, it's not like it's the end of the world. I mean, do we actually _know_ that he's plotting global damnation?" Bruce tried to keep his tone light, but Tony just snorted and shook his head.

"No. But in less than an hour, Fury might be."

"What's Fury doing?"

The new voice came from Steve Rogers, who had just stepped into the room. He was wearing sweats, and looked like he had showered recently. And slept.

Bruce looked away with a pained expression.

"Morning, princess," Tony called in a sing-songy voice. "We were just talking about how your BFF Nick Fury's gonna have us strung up and executed."

"Why, what's going on? Have you found him?"

"Found? Found who?" Tony pointed to himself. "Were we supposed to be looking for someone?"

"No, we haven't found him," Bruce supplied. "The lead Fury gave us was a dead end."

"You're sure?" Steve asked, eyes scanning the room as though he expected Shadeslayer to be standing in the corner somewhere.

"Yes, we're sure," Tony responded bitterly. "But if you think you've got a shot at doing any of this better, please," he gestured broadly at the room at large, "be my guest."

"I was just asking, Tony."

"Well ask somewhere else, Spangles. Bruce and I are busy."

"We're really not," Bruce put in. "Unless you want to try recalibrating the satellites _again_ , which we're not going to have time to finish before Fury gets here."

"We could reset the program."

"For the dozenth time? It's too late, Tony. We've done all we can."

"Fine, then!" Tony had a hostile gleam in his eyes that somehow seemed even more intimidating when paired with the impressive bags underneath them. "Stars and Stripes can join our boy band... it's not like we were actually _capable_ of doing anything, anyway..."

Bruce and Steve watched, a bit concerned, as Tony continued grumbling to himself and obsessively checking the screens in front of him. Finally, he announced, "I need a drink," and stalked out of the room, brushing past Steve's shoulder as he passed. When he was gone, Bruce met Steve's eyes.

"He's in a bad mood," he explained.

"I could tell."

"And he hasn't been sleeping."

"Neither have you, by the looks of it."

Bruce grimaced but didn't respond.

Steve paced further into the lab, watching the screens full of equations and code pass centimeters beneath his fingertips. "Any police reports? Sightings? No one's seen him?"

Bruce collapsed onto one of the sofas pushed against the wall with a sigh. "No one with the decency to tell us about it. And we've been scanning facial recognition software, which means he's probably holed up somewhere, staying put."

"So he's got allies?"

"We don't know." Bruce hesitated and glanced over at the door, where Tony had disappeared. The other man would certainly have something to say on this topic. "Maybe."

Steve shook his head and sat down on one of the stools pulled up to Tony's main working desk. He locked eyes with Bruce, and then said seriously, "So what do you guys think?"

Bruce frowned. "About the kid?"

"Yeah, about the kid."

"Well for starters, I think he's a little pain in the ass." Tony had reentered, holding a glass of what looked like whiskey.

"Think he's up to something?" Steve asked, immediately latching onto the new arrival. "Illegal genetic manipulation and all that? Or actually from another world, like he says?"

Tony shook his head while taking a sip from his glass. "Everyone's up to something, Cap. The kid..." He started flicking at one of the screens with his free hand. "I mean, he's clearly a lab rat. There's no doubt about that. We know what sort of energies are released when Thor opens up one of his stairways to heaven, and that blueprint matches _this_ ," here Tony pulled up a radiational deconstruction of the explosion, taken from a SHIELD satellite, "by about negative four percent."

"And what is that?" Steve asked, squinting at the colorful collection of dots that Tony was now spinning with a flick of the hand.

"Energy signature at Lancelot's first appearance. And here's Thor's." The second holograph looked more like a faintly glowing orb of golden light.

"So he didn't teleport," Steve confirmed.

"Not even close."

"But he did... appear? I mean, he wasn't there earlier, was he?"

"All the cameras close enough to tell were destroyed."

"Figures," Steve huffed. "Well, at least you'll be able to tell Fury _something_."

"Speaking of which, what are you doing here, exactly?" Tony gestured with his glass at Steve. "You got something important to say to the one-eyed bastard? Been doing some research of your own?"

"No, Fury asked me to come. But that is a good point. Why call us all here before we know where we're headed next?"

"We're _supposed_ to know by now," Bruce pointed out. "Fury set us a deadline, and we didn't meet it."

"But haven't you been keeping in contact with him?" Steve seemed surprised. "I mean, what's the point of having a team meeting? Couldn't you have just kept him updated as you went along?"

"It's psychology," Tony explained, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "If he's actually coming to meet face to face, the deadline's more meaningful. It's probably why he called the rest of you guys in, too." He took a sip from his glass. "Peer encouragement."

"That doesn't really sound like Fury," Steve objected.

"Well then maybe he's got a plan B, and it revolves around you folks." Tony looked at Steve thoughtfully.

"Well," said Bruce, as he noticed a silent message from Jarvis appearing on one of the screens, "It looks like we're about to find out."

* * *

The meeting was reminiscent of the one held a few days ago, when Fury had first briefed the team on Shadeslayer, only with the addition of Clint Barton, who was seated next to Natasha, and Agent Coulson, who was standing against the wall behind Fury with his hands behind his back, and the fact that this time the meeting was actually taking place in a conference room instead of around Tony's bar.

It had been at least a month since Bruce had seen Clint. He was looking well, with a kind of fiery intensity in his eyes which Bruce suspected was left over from his most recent mission, considering that the man was even now still geared up and in uniform. Bruce wondered vaguely what he'd been doing – all he knew was that Clint had been out of the country – and if he had actually completed his mission, or if Fury had pulled him out prematurely in order to deal with this crisis.

He didn't ask.

Instead he took a seat at the table, next to Tony and across from Natasha. The redhead gave him a faint smile, which he did his best to return. Then Fury cleared his throat, and Bruce braced himself for whatever disappointed talking-to he and Tony were about to receive. He was a scientist, damn it, one of the best. And he was technically classified as a potential global catastrophe. He wasn't about to let himself be intimidated by Nick Fury like he was some kind of misbehaving school boy.

"Barton, you've been briefed?"

Clint nodded.

"Good, we'll get straight to business." Fury swiveled his head to stare down Tony and Bruce. "I'm assuming you two don't have anything interesting to tell me?"

Huh?

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," Tony said, holding up a hand. "How do you know that? How does—" He turned to look at Bruce. "How does he know that? Did you tell him that? C'mon, Brucie, you're killing me, I wanted to see his _face—_ "

"What do you mean, nothing interesting?" Clint asked. "I thought you guys were supposed to figure out where this kid went?"

"I didn't tell him anything," Bruce told Tony. "I thought—"

"Well in that case, Fury," Steve spoke up, "What's your play? Do we have a mission? Plan B?"

Before Fury could respond, Tony was saying, "Wait, hang up, hang up, before you answer that, how about you share with the class how you knew the sword was a dead end? Because Bruce and I sure didn't tell you that. You been keeping tabs on my search history?"

"You gave them a dead end?" The spark in Clint's eyes had grown into a blaze. "Intentionally? Something you want to tell us, Fury?"

"What exactly are you suggesting, Barton?" Fury's voice sent chills down Bruce's spine, and the whole room stilled.

After a brief but awkward pause, Natasha spoke up, seeming almost amused. "To be fair, it wouldn't be the first time you sent us running in circles."

Now everyone was looking at Fury.

He sighed, then turned to share a glance with Agent Coulson. Coulson nodded, then briskly left the room, pulling out a phone as the door closed behind him.

"To be clear, in general I'd appreciate it if you fellas restrained yourselves from jumping to conclusions, and making unfounded accusations."

Bruce found himself looking back at Natasha, who was smirking down at the table.

Fury sighed.

"But while you're at it, there's probably something I should show you."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** And we're back. Feel free to leave a review; I'd love to hear your thoughts.~

 _._

* * *

 _Eragon didn't know where he was; although he hadn't known where he was, really, for quite a while, he was definitely somewhere different now than he had been and he was definitely restrained._

 _His thoughts were a blurred mess, which he was sure meant something was wrong, but he wasn't quite thinking well enough to determine what it was. Had he been captured by Galbatorix? Who else was powerful enough to defeat him? The elves?_

 _Eragon was incredibly lonely, and his mind was incredibly empty. He felt sure that if the comforting presence which he was accustomed to filling the desolate corners of his consciousness had been there, she would have been able to help organize his thoughts into something resembling consistency._

 _But she was gone, and Eragon found himself weeping._

" _Ready?" someone asked, but the question wasn't directed at him._

* * *

It was unfortunate, really, that Fury was arrested before he could explain what he meant.

It was unusually warm out for a September morning, and Steve relished the sunlight on his skin as he led the way out onto the sidewalk; the tower's interior always seemed cold to him, colder than it needed to be, but maybe it was just all that glass and steel that put him on edge. There was an armored vehicle waiting for them – Coulson must have called for it – with a few SHIELD agents acting as body guards standing holding the doors open, or with hands on their holsters, or speaking into earpieces. Steve found himself wondering at their relevance in protecting a team of the most powerful individuals on the planet, but he didn't ask.

"You want to tell us where we're going?" Steve heard Clint request from somewhere behind him. He didn't hear Fury's response.

Steve ducked down into the car and took a seat on the bench lining the far wall. The rest of his team followed, and then the agents. Someone slammed the door closed, and instantly the interior of the car became near silent.

"Where are we going?" Clint asked again.

The driver turned to share a look with the agent sitting next to him, then swiveled to face Clint. "SHIELD headquarters."

Steve frowned, then scanned the length of sidewalk that he could see between Clint and Natasha. Fury was still outside, speaking to a gathering of agents who had appeared from seemingly nowhere. A cursory glance around revealed another large SUV further down the block, with doors thrown open.

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but before he got the chance to ask his question a number of the agents on the sidewalk had pulled out guns and were now training them on Fury.

"What the hell?" blurted Bruce, who was sat next to Steve and was therefore also facing the building.

Steve merely stared open mouthed as the rest of the passengers locked their attention on the spectacle unfolding outside. Now Fury was holding his hands in the air.

"The _hell?_ " Clint echoed.

"What's going on?" Natasha snapped, turning to stare down the driver. "Why is Fury being arrested?"

Fury was handcuffed, now, and being led to the other SUV.

"We were told to bring him in," said the agent in the passenger seat, before putting one hand up and another to his earpiece. He listened for a moment, then nodded. He looked at the driver. "We're good to go."

The car began to pull away from the curb, and immediately a storm of protests arose.

"Now _wait_ a minute—"

"What do you think you're—"

"The _hell_ is going on here?"

"Fury's broken protocol!" the agent in the passenger seat said angrily, loud enough to be heard over them, and was awarded with a hush.

 _You know, sometimes we really are like a bunch of misbehaving children._

"You'll be briefed at headquarters," the agent said, and that was the end of that.

Steve looked around the interior of the now swiftly moving car, and shared frightened and confused glances with the rest of the members of his team.

He felt sick to his stomach.

* * *

Now he was being ushered – ushered out of the car, ushered down a hallway, ushered into a large conference room containing only an assortment of people and a podium. The man at the front of the room had a pinched, rodent-like face and close cropped hair. His suit was grey and far too small for him.

He smiled at Steve as he led his team inside.

"Welcome, Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark!" The smile was anything but fixed. Bruce, Natasha and Clint weren't even merited nods.

 _Hopefully he does something to really piss Natasha off,_ Steve found himself thinking, and suppressed a smirk when he imagined how _that_ would go down. Natasha, however, he couldn't help but noticing, seemed unusually perturbed – at least, by her standards. She was twitchy, just a bit, and kept scanning the room as though looking for a threat.

The dread returned. _This is not going to go well._

"Thank you all for coming," the man at the podium announced, as a pair of guards swung the doors behind them shut. Apparently the Avengers had been the last to arrive. "I'd like to begin immediately, so if you could all please listen carefully."

The gentle chattering died down.

Steve was trying to place what the man's face reminded him of. _A squirrel?_ It was something like that.

"You have all been admitted at clearance level six or higher, meaning you've all been briefed on the incident in Manhattan which occurred nearly seventy-two hours previously, as well as on the enhanced individual known as Shadeslayer in conjunction with that event. However, I would like to begin by reminding you all that what is about to be discussed is sensitive information, and is not to leave this room. Are we clear?"

Steve almost didn't notice the murmurings of agreement which rippled across the crowd of agents. _A mouse?_ No, there was something closer.

"Good." The man took a breath. "At roughly nineteen-hundred hours last evening, security noticed a discrepancy in protocols concerning a few security cameras located in the F-wing. When resetting the system didn't clear the bugs, head of security employed a code purple."

That had something to do with hackers, right? Steve could never get the colors straight. _Ferret_? Maybe.

"While technicians were working on discovering the source of what they deemed to be a rootkit, a team was sent down to check on the cameras and the rooms they weren't displaying properly."

A _mole_ , that was it. _He looks exactly like a mole._

"What they found..." The man paused, looked down and shuffled some papers, as though psyching himself up. "What they found, was... hidden away in one of the back storage rooms, was... well." A breath. " _Shadeslayer_. And—"

A wave of noise cut the man off, the agents' voices immediately clamoring over each other in an effort to be heard. Steve took a moment to allow the information to sink in, and then felt his skin grow cold.

 _...He never left?_

"Does that mean..." Tony hissed from somewhere behind him, "That _whole time_..."

"Agents, please!" the man cried, sounding almost desperate. When the room had returned to a state of relative calm, he finished, expression like he was signing his own death warrant. "...At about five this morning, the hole in the system was traced back... to Director Fury's personal computer."

No outrage this time, just silence, one which extended for several long seconds. Steve was staring vacuously at the almost-balding man while his mind furiously tried to keep up. Surely he had heard something wrong?

 _Fury...?_

Steve looked over at the rest of his team, numbness quickly turning to horror. Clint's face was displaying some of the shock Steve was feeling, although he could tell the agent was working to maintain his composure. Bruce and Tony both just looked confused. But Natasha, who was standing the furthest away, a bit apart from the rest, had her features carefully schooled into a blank expression.

Their eyes met, and Steve's stomach sank.

"Nicholas Fury is now in custody, of course, and has been charged with illegally assisting and removing a previously incarcerated and enhanced hostile from SHIELD custody, as well as filing several falsified reports to SHIELD headquarters in an attempt to... well, you know... cover his ass."

He paused, as though in preparation for a tittering of laughter. The room was dead silent.

He went on.

"These... reports, I will mention, included an initiative to enlist the Avengers to help 'find' Shadeslayer, a measure which certainly helped his case seem believable, but which, I am sure, to _some,_ " here the man gestured at Steve, "was an unwelcome and _entirely_ unnecessary inconvenience."

The entire assembly turned to face Steve, as though expecting a heated tirade on Fury's insolence and discourtesy. Steve averted his eyes, took a deep breath, and then nodded once, tersely, at the speaker.

"Naturally." He looked down at his papers again. "The, ah, the so-called 'Shadeslayer' is being contained in our top security vault, heavily sedated and monitored twenty-four seven. I can personally assure each and every one of you that nothing like this will be allowed to happen, ever again."

"And what are they doing with him now?" called a voice Steve didn't recognize from across the room.

"The genetic structure of the enhanced is unlike anything we've ever seen, let alone been able to replicate," mole-faced man explained, happily turning to the new speaker and sounding like he was getting his momentum back. "Our researchers are performing experiments as we speak."

"What kind of experiments?" Steve asked, trying to keep his tone even despite the mixture of terror and rage threatening to force its way up his throat.

"I hardly know the specifics, Captain Rogers, but I know we're trying to get a catalog of his abilities and enhancements, as well as determining the hows and whys of his genetic manipulation. DNA testing, I'd imagine, and assessing his bodily structure. The first stages of research are only now beginning, but I believe they've already discovered something very interesting about his brain—"

"And I'd assume the end result, ideally, would be something like recreating him?"

Some of his bitterness must have crept into his voice, because the other members of the group all seemed to still and the mole-faced man took his time in responding.

"The end result, ideally, would be a genetic breakthrough."

 _They're going to cut him open and not bother putting him back together,_ Steve translated. _All for the sake of science. That kid's probably going through hell right now._

And whose fault was that?

The man was answering another question, something about residual malware, but Steve suddenly couldn't bring himself to care because at some point Natasha had made her way through the crowd and was now standing by his side.

Steve stared at her, furious, for a long second, then, trusting Tony to fill him in later, grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the gathering of agents, out of the room, and down a quiet looking hallway. "Did you know?" Steve hissed when they were out of earshot and he managed to find his voice. "All along? Did you know?"

Natasha didn't seem at all surprised by his accusation, just calmly double checked for security cameras. "Some of it," she replied coolly, her chin raised. "I helped Fury bury him in the basement of SHIELD a few days ago, but I didn't ask questions, and Fury didn't explain himself. He didn't need to." She quickly spoke over Steve's objections, saying, "And before you get all hissy, Rogers, I didn't do it to intentionally go behind your back, I did it because I trust Fury. And you should too. I mean, really, was he wrong? Look what happened when SHIELD got a hold of the kid. He was just trying to protect him."

"Yeah? Then why didn't he ask for our help?" Steve clenched his fists, fighting to keep his bubbling rage under control. "And don't tell me he was trying to protect him from _us –_ any one of us would have been willing to help keep him safe from SHIELD. For crying out loud, Natasha, he's just a _kid!_ And now, because Fury couldn't be bothered to _talk_ to us or _trust_ , as usual, everything's gone to pieces. Fury got a big head and bit off more that he could chew, and now Shadeslayer is in SHIELD's top security prison, about to be taken apart for _parts_ , and there's not a _thing_ we can do about it _._ "

Her cool tone had evaporated, but she was still careful to keep her voice low. "Well then what do you want me to do, Rogers!? Fury did the _best he could_ ," she paused, eyes searching his, "and all I did was what I was told. So if you seriously want to help the kid, which it looks like you do, how about you step down to join the rest of us mortals and start _helping_. Maybe Fury made a mistake, maybe I did too. Does that really matter, at all, at this point? Criticize me _after_ we get the job done, how about that."

Steve kept his gaze locked on Natasha, eyes cold and jaw clenched, for a few tense moments. Then he sighed and turned away, suddenly exhausted.

"We need to get the others," he muttered.

"Like hell we do. You really want to get Tony caught up in this? You really think he'll be on our side?"

Steve rubbed a hand over his face in frustration. She was probably right, but the idea of not involving the other Avengers didn't sit well with him.

"Tony trusts Fury," Steve pointed out.

Natasha snorted. "Not enough to break the law."

"So we go it alone?"

"You really want to do this?"

Steve turned back to her, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? You really think we should just leave him at the mercy of those psychos?"

She shrugged, but it was too nonchalant to be just that. "Just playing devil's advocate. We do barely know him. Maybe he's seriously evil."

"Well, you're the one who met him in Manhattan, and... later. You probably know him better than any of us. You get any 'seriously evil' vibes?"

Natasha paused and gazed down the hallway, eyes unfocusing as though she was seriously considering her answer. "No," she said finally, but without much certainty.

She turned back to look at Steve, who raised an eyebrow in prompt.

"He was polite," she exemplified. "And... confused. Scared. He kept asking me questions, about me, about SHIELD, about how electricity works. Like he was desperate to make some sort of sense of the world."

"Not a lab rat, then."

"I don't think so. Try telling Garis that, though."

"Who?"

"Garis?" She looked concernedly at him. "Jeffery Garis? The agent briefing us in there?"

"Oh. I didn't know his name."

It looked like she was trying to keep from rolling her eyes. "He's an asshole."

"Yeah, I got that."

"All these higher-ups are going to be convinced the kid's some kind of threat, because that's what they want to see. Like Tony. It's a lot easier to admit that there's some sort of genetic experimentation going on that they don't know about, but _could_ , than a whole other world filled with things that aren't even human, that they'll never understand."

It made sense. "That's what Fury said?"

She just shrugged. "Something like that."

"So what's got you worried? You didn't seem too convinced that he was a good guy."

The uncertainty was back, this time in full force. "It wasn't... it's not like he did or said anything out of line. Perfectly respectful, maybe a bit agitated later on, but I think it was more homesickness than anything else."

"...But?"

She sighed, and closed her eyes for a few seconds before locking them onto Steve. "But I'm a good judge of character, Rogers. It's probably what's kept me alive this long. And that kid... whoever he is, I think we want to make very sure he stays on our side," she said in a deadly monotone. "I'm not saying we can't trust him, I'm just saying, he's... intense. Dangerous."

"You mean, his abilities?"

"No, I mean him. I mean his sword is like an extension of his arm, and he reaches for it when it's not even there – not threateningly, just casually. He goes to lean on it and it throws him off balance. I mean that he has the eyes of a soldier, a warrior. Fighting is what he knows." She sighed. "And... and I think he knows it. I think he's embraced it. I think he's hiding a ruthlessness under that pleasant demeanor, and with his abilities..."

She trailed off, and Steve looked away, considering her words carefully. It might be something of a leap to make, but he did trust Natasha's judgment, no matter how limited her time with Shadeslayer had been. He tried to fit the impression she was giving him with what little information they had, to paint some sort of picture of who this boy might be, but it was difficult to do when he had never actually seen him in person.

"You think maybe he's a... criminal? I mean, who knows, he could have been arrested in his world, exiled here or something."

Natasha shook her head. "Maybe," she said, then paused for a few seconds when a pair of agents walked past down an adjoining hallway. Then she continued, quieter. "But I still think we can trust him, and I still think he needs our help. I wouldn't be having this conversation otherwise."

If _Natasha_ could put her faith in someone this quickly, Steve was damn sure he could too. "So we're breaking the possibly psychotic elf-child out of superhero jail."

The Russian's eyes were alight, and her lips were curving into a smile. "I'll get Clint."


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** Hope you lot like this one, I really enjoyed writing it. Please please review and give me suggestions, or just let me know what you think~

.

* * *

 _Eragon dreamt of home. He opened his eyes and saw a fireplace, nothing left but embers, and three pairs of woolen socks hanging over the mantle to dry. He saw a lit candle, the wax melted into a pool on the rough-hewn oak table, in the center, where they always put the candles because they could never be bothered to clean up the wax, and so they figured that the least they could do was to only ruin one small section of it._

 _He breathed in and smelled hay, and smoke, and snow. He smelled sweat and wood and honey and Roran. It smelled like nighttime, and he knew he ought to be sleeping, and he was so, so tired anyway, and maybe he ought to lie back down, just on the floor where he stood, and forget about everything for a while._

 _Instead he closed his eyes and dreamt of home, of tough scales and warm breath and being enveloped in love._

 _Then he woke up._

* * *

Bruce entered the room tentatively, a sheaf of papers clutched in one hand and a Stark Tablet in the other.

"E's pretty drugged up, so there's nothin' to worry about," an aging scientist who was holding the door open said. "Don't think you'll get much reaction out of 'im, but you're welcome to try. Oh, and the CT scans are on the table there, if you're interested."

"Thanks," Bruce mumbled, giving the man a quick smile.

The man nodded, then opened his mouth like he wanted to say something before closing it and smiling back. "You two have fun, then," he said, then left the room, letting the solid metal door swing gently shut behind him.

Bruce watched it close, then watched it for another few moments before steeling himself to turn around.

The Rogue Knight was strapped to a table, and looking at him.

The room itself, as well as the adjacent lab on the other side of a glass wall, was filled with enough medical and scientific equipment to keep Bruce busy for hours – still his beating heart, the MRI scanner looked brand new – but Bruce found himself entirely uninterested in fiddling with anything or reading the CT scan results as he met the boy's gaze. Something about the intensity in those eyes was pulling him in, making him unable to look away. He was struck with a sudden impulse to bow, or maybe grovel, or at the very least move toward the slightly-inclined table and release the restraints, helping the boy up and asking if he needed anything.

He did none of those things, however, and silently reminded himself that the superiority in the boy's gaze was entirely manufactured in an effort to gain dominance over Bruce. He was just a belligerent kid, and a drugged one at that.

On drugs, barely able to think, and _still_ he was glaring at Bruce. A _very_ belligerent kid.

"Hello," Bruce said timidly. He'd been told multiple times that the boy wouldn't react, but he looked perfectly coherent. Maybe the scientists had been exaggerating?

The boy didn't speak, but his facial expression changed a bit, his frown deepening and eyes narrowing. Bruce thought he probably ought to write that down. Instead, he set his papers and tablet on the table next to him and took a step forward.

"My name's Dr. Banner," he said, wondering what the operatives watching the security footage right now were thinking of him, but not really caring. "I'm told you speak English. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The Rogue Knight's gaze didn't waver.

He might be Asian, Bruce thought, his eyes were fairly almond shaped and almost slanted upwards. His skin was fair, though, and his hair a mousy brown. Natasha had also mentioned that his accent had sounded European, but she hadn't been able to place the exact origin. It would be difficult, of course, to place his nationality when there was no way of knowing which features were the results of surgery or genetic manipulation.

Maybe it was just his facial features that made him look so intense – those slanted eyebrows that were almost straight lines, or the high, prominent cheekbones casting shadows over his face. Tony was always complaining about Clint's "Resting Bitch Face"; maybe it was the same thing, like the boy couldn't help that his lips were permanently down-turned and his eyes were like bottomless chasms. He could be completely delirious for all Bruce knew, his eyes just latching onto Bruce's face by instinct.

Then the boy opened his mouth and spoke evenly: "Ono kenna edtha."

Bruce kept himself from starting, but froze, his eyes quickly darting up to the security camera in the corner of the room. It hadn't been English, or at least, English too jumbled to make any words out, but it was still speech.

"I— sorry, what was that?"

His gaze lingered for a moment longer before the boy closed his eyes, finally, and seemed to sigh. His features didn't relax, but for some reason Bruce was able to breathe easier.

"It's... Shadeslayer, right? Do— do you know where you are?"

"Where is Saphira?"

The words were mumbled but audible, his lips barely moving and his eyes remaining closed. Frankly, Bruce was impressed. Their Rogue Knight was seeming fairly talkative for someone who had been described as catatonic.

"I'm not sure. Can you tell me who Saphira is, and maybe I can help find her for you?"

"Barzûl. Barzûl, barzûl, barzûl, barzûl..."

With each repetition his face became more strained, and then he started pulling at his bonds.

"Shit," Bruce muttered, and immediately started forward. If the boy got at all violent his handlers would pull Bruce out and put the boy under. The higher-ups were reluctant to give him another chance to blow up the entire building after so long spent under Fury's negligent care.

"Hey, hey," Bruce said softly, reaching the boy's side and resting a hand on his bare chest. "Hey just— just calm down, alright? It's okay, it's okay, you're safe. Just calm down."

Eventually the boy stopped pulling and muttering, and his eyes reopened to once again latch onto Bruce's. From up close his gaze looked more clouded than sharp, and Bruce wondered why he had ever been afraid.

"Roran?" the boy asked in a breathy whisper.

"Ah, sorry, what?" It could have been a name, or it could have been something in the other language the boy had been speaking.

"Roran, what—" His eyes closed before Bruce could determine if they had filled with tears. "Where is she? Roran? Roran, help—"

Bruce bit his lip and hesitantly raised his hand from the boy's chest. Someone else should really be doing this – he'd just come to check the boy's vitals and look over some of the tests that had been run. But no one was coming in to stop him, and he had no delusions that there wasn't a crowd of agents gathered around the monitor in the security room. Maybe this was the first the boy had talked, and they were afraid of making him stop.

Of course, they could probably just decrease the propofol drip running through his IV and find out anything they wanted to know, but Bruce also held no delusions that the agents had that much trust in the knight.

"I'm sorry," he began, wondering if the boy was even understanding a word he said, "but I'm not... Roran." It was a person, right? It was probably a person. "My name's Dr. Banner, I work for SHIELD. Can you tell me who you are?" Another benefit of keeping him drugged, Bruce thought, was that it would probably work a bit like a truth serum if only he could get the boy answering his questions.

"Roran..."

And now the boy _was_ crying, the word catching in his throat and tears appearing at the corner of his eyes.

Shit, shit, shit. Was there anything he could do that was worse than making a teenage boy cry? Well... yes, and Bruce had probably done most of them, but that didn't help the guilt that twisted his stomach.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, hey..." He replaced his hand on the boy's chest, then hesitated and chewed on his bottom lip. He glanced back up at the cameras, then at the IV drip.

Well, hey, what was the worst that could happen? They could kick him out of the room. Or they could arrest him, he supposed, but he doubted that they would. Surely being a world renowned scientist and one of the foremost geniuses of his generation, not to mention an Avenger, provided him with some benefits to his own scientific exploration?

He turned the drip down.

The effect wasn't instantaneous, but it came sooner than he would have expected, probably due to some healing factor or another. Barely a minute passed before the knight's breath hitched, and then calmed; Bruce hadn't even realized that the boy had been hyperventilating until he stopped. His restrained fists clenched and unclenched a few times, and the furrow in his brow finally, finally, began to relax.

Which was odd, because the drugs had been supposed to calm the knight, not induce more stress. Maybe the slight clearing of the boy's mind was enough to settle him down, like he could feel the drugs leaving his system and his wits returning to him.

"Hey, there," Bruce said quietly, not moving his hand from the boy's chest, instinctively knowing that it was keeping him grounded. "Is that better?"

The kid sucked in a breath. "What did you do?"

Conversation? Maybe this _had_ been a good idea.

"I've decreased your drug intake. It should help clear your head."

"Why? If you know who I am?"

"I... don't, actually, know who you are. Could you tell me your name? I mean," he added, thinking about the _Shadeslayer_ title, "your _real_ name."

The boy frowned quizzically at him for a moment, until his face gradually broke out into a grotesque smile. Then he laughed, once, harshly. "I see. Of course, I see now." He kept smiling bitterly at the ceiling, shaking his head with amusement. "I must admit, you had me fooled."

"I— what?" Bruce asked. He slowly removed his hand, thinking fast, but unable to determine what had been wrong with his question. "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," the knight agreed easily. "You're probably not even real."

Bruce wasn't sure how everything had managed to go wrong so quickly, but he was regretting turning the drip down.

"No, I— I promise you, I'm very real. My name's Dr. Banner, you're in SHIELD custody—"

"And Galbatorix," the boy interrupted, "is the master of mind games." He shook his head again. "Trick me, torture me, turn my mind against itself – I'll not yield. I'd sooner die."

Bruce gnawed on his lower lip, wondering how long the agents would let this go on before they realized how grossly incompetent he was in this area and pull him out. "Um... well, I don't need you to, ah, ' _yield_ ' to anything, and I definitely don't need you to die. I just wanted to know who you are, and where you came from."

"You know who I am."

"I actually really don't."

"Oh? Then why have you" —he grimaced and pulled at his manacles— "drugged me? Restrained me? Kept me prisoner such that I cannot escape? You've hardly underestimated my abilities."

"We always try not to," Bruce said reasonably, but feeling increasingly more desperate. "But—"

"If you aren't working for Galbatorix, or trying to enslave me, or even merely a figment of my mind, then swear it." His eyes burned with fury, his chin raised as best as he could considering the strap stretching across his forehead. "Swear it, in the ancient language."

Bruce opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Kid, I haven't got any idea what you're talking about. Who's Galbatorix?"

"Ah, you see! You couldn't possibly know who I am without knowing about Galbatorix, no matter how distant a land—"

The boy abruptly cut himself off, the words dying in his throat, his eyes unfocusing and face becoming pensive.

Bruce glanced around, wondering if maybe someone had entered the room, completely at a loss as to what sparked the change. He looked back at the knight. "Sorry? Is something wrong?"

"But... that man," the kid said, quietly, as though to himself. "The one who spoke with me, with the dark skin."

"Fury?" Bruce asked when the pause had stretched for a few seconds.

"He said..." The knight screwed his eyes shut, like he was wracking his brain for information. "I'd forgotten, but I trusted him, I know it. He told me... but what happened?" He looked imploringly up at Bruce.

Was this classified information? Probably.

"He, ah, he was... arrested," Bruce said. "For, well... for helping you. The people he worked with, they found out that he smuggled you out of custody. And they found you, and that's why you're here now."

"I can't..." He made a noise of disgust. "Damn these drugs, damn _you_ , I can't _think_."

"I'm sorry," Bruce said, and was mildly surprised to realize that he meant it. "Really. But SHIELD is convinced you're a threat."

The boy was looking around, but now considered Bruce out of the corner of his eyes. "And you don't, Dr. Banner?"

Bruce froze. To say that he was thrown off would be an understatement, but the familiarity and perceptiveness shouldn't really have come as a surprise, considering how well the boy had been communicating previously. It was just strange – strange to hear his name coming out of this strange boy's mouth, strange that he was acting so rational while heavily dosed up on sedatives, strange that Bruce was becoming less and less convinced that Tony was in the right about all this. Maybe he really wasn't human, but from another world just like Thor's. Was that really so far-fetched? _Did_ Bruce really not see him as a threat?

Most importantly, how much of this was a result of Bruce's own observations, and how much was him being manipulated by a pair of fierce eyes and a strange accent?

Bruce swallowed, smiled painfully, and answered as honestly as he could: "You're certainly not a threat to _me_." Then he turned the IV drip back up, gathered up his papers and tablet, and got the hell out of that room. And wondered if the kid would believe him, and if he even believed himself.

* * *

"Well thank God, that's all I have to say. Thank the Lord above."

"Really, Stark?" Steve wasn't drinking, but was lounging casually enough on Tony's sofa to give the impression that he was. He and Natasha had disappeared to God knows where at some point during the debriefing that morning, and Bruce had stayed at headquarters all day to examine the Rogue Knight, but by now the team was back together at the tower to discuss the day's events. All Bruce really wanted to do was disappear into his bedroom, or maybe the labs – SHIELD had sent along all the DNA test results, since he hadn't really gotten a chance to look at them earlier – and try to make sense of everything that had happened that day. He wasn't sure why he didn't, really, but something kept him rooted to the spot – exhaustion, probably, he still hadn't gotten a good night's sleep for several days – and so he sat numbly next to Steve, also not drinking, also with a very subtle urge to punch Tony in the throat. At least, Bruce was assuming that Steve shared that particular trait, considering the disgusted look he was currently giving the billionaire.

Tony gestured back with his glass of whiskey. "What? I can't say that? I can't thank God that a crazy teenage-mutant-ninja-terrorist who we _thought_ was on the loose is actually behind bars, and has been the whole time? I'm not allowed to be grateful that we're finally done hunting the poor bastard?"

"I didn't say that," Steve retorted, exasperated. "But I mean... seriously, Tony, he's just a kid. Maybe we should be a little more concerned about _him_ , and a little less concerned about keeping him locked up?"

"Are you sympathizing with a _terrorist_ , Cap?" Tony paced the room, gesturing wildly in mock tumult. "Well, there you go everybody, Mr. Stars and Stripes is secretly a terrorist, he's actually been Hydra this whole time..."

"Tony, for crying out loud, would you just look at this rationally for _one_ second?"

"I _have_ been looking at this rationally, Rogers, _you're_ the one who's got all those self-righteous emotions clouding your judgment—"

"And the two of you are _definitely not_ going to start bickering like school boys, or I will be the one kicking _both_ of your asses," Natasha put in, seeming highly unconcerned. She shared a look with Steve that Bruce couldn't make sense of, and then Clint was saying, "Well, I just think SHIELD might have jumped the gun a bit, that's all," and they were at it again.

Natasha sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes, then caught Bruce looking at her and smiled at him in a defeated sort of way. He grimaced back at her and shrugged.

What could you do.

Bruce ended up not moving until late in the night, long after the rest of the team had disappeared into their own little corners of the universe. The city below had stilled as much as it ever did, the cars and drunks taking on a subdued and quiet existence that only belonged to the night's darkest hours. When he did finally stand it was to tread tiredly towards the window and look out across the sea of lights, wondering about the boy, and Steve, and Tony, and himself.

He ran a hand over his face and sighed. Then he went to bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** This was getting ridiculously long, so I decided to cut this chapter in half and just post it already. Sorry for taking so bloody long to update! To make it up to you, this update is nearly twice as long as a normal one~

.

* * *

 _Eragon needed to escape._

 _He was aware of that much, even if everything beyond that one acute, primal instinct was a blurred mess of emotions and memories that he couldn't quite grasp. All he knew, all he could think, was that he wasn't meant to be here, and he needed to escape._

 _There were people in his room, sometimes – humans, dressed strangely in stark white and an assortment of greys – but the one for whom he was waiting, the one about whom he had some vague notion, like he or she had helped him, or was trustworthy, did not return. Eragon couldn't remember why this person's presence was something to be looked forward to, but the feeling wouldn't leave him, and he found himself studying the faces of all the humans who entered, waiting for one that would clear his head and sharpen his thoughts once more._

 _He tugged at his bonds feebly, then looked upwards at the smooth white ceiling, and wondered if he should pray._

Escape _. He needed to run, he needed to fight, he needed to feel the sun and the wind and find... someone, because his head was too empty and_ do you know why losing your dragon, or vice versa, usually kills the survivor? ... when it happened to Brom, I fear that he went mad for a time ... alone, and half mad with loss, Galbatorix wandered without hope in that desolate land seeking death...

...the council saw him for what he truly was...

...then were the seeds of madness planted ... kills the survivor...

 _Eragon groaned and shut his eyes. He needed to escape._

* * *

"A video?"

"Yes, Rogers. Like pictures, only moving? For education, entertainment—"

"I know what a video is, Romanoff, thanks."

"Well, you never know with you. Here, you ready?"

Natasha swung the laptop around so that they could both see the screen. It was displaying a particular folder from the flash drive she had "borrowed," one which contained only one file, labeled with yesterday's date.

"Is this the last of it?" Steve asked. Natasha had been going through this flash drive for the past ten minutes, occasionally making comments, but mostly just growing increasingly more annoyed.

"Nope. But if I don't watch it now, I'll lose track of my system and probably won't be able to find it again."

"There's that much stuff in here?"

"It's not the amount of stuff, it's all the security they put up around it." She waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry, Rogers, I've got it handled. Now, you ready for our movie night?"

"Some date," he muttered, but watched with interest as Natasha opened up the file.

The video had been taken in a lab, if the brief blur of machinery and white walls was anything to go by. After a second of fumbling, the image focused on Shadeslayer's face; his eyes were half-lidded, and his skin was pale and sickly looking. A frame of metal surrounded his head, with padded supports seemingly to keep him still. His hair had been combed entirely to one side, clearing the way for a section of shaved skull, just behind his pointed ear.

"We thought you ought to see this for yourself, Dr. Banner," a male voice from behind the camera said.

Steve felt suddenly sick, and the then-procured scalpel that a pair of hands pressed against the square of shaved head did nothing to ease his anxiety.

"We went to perform a biopsy on the subject's temporal lobe, to examine possible causes of the unusual energies we were picking up in our scans. But"—and here the scalpel was angled to point perpendicular to the boy's head, the blade's tip disappearing behind the fine stubble of hair, and then _pushed—_ "as you can see, the subject appears to have some sort of... _protection_ against bodily injury." And sure enough, the scalpel did nothing more than cause a shallow indent in the skin.

"Any chance it's just dull?" Natasha's voice murmured against Steve's ear, the tiniest hint of amusement coloring it. Steve just _shushed_ her with a wave of his hand – the video was at a very low volume.

The disembodied voice said, "It's the same everywhere else on his body," and then huffed a laugh. "Explains why it was so difficult to get any blood-work from the interns. Here," the scalpel moved with the camera to a section of Shadeslayer's forearm, where it pressed a dent into his skin, but, once again, did not break it.

"See? Everywhere. So we bumped it up a bit..." And then a man, another scientist or lab technician wearing a pair of safety goggles appeared, holding what looked like a—

"Jesus," Natasha breathed, and Steve, frankly, agreed. A saw. An electric, handheld, genuine circular saw, and not the miniature kind that Steve would expect to find as a surgery tool. It was like something out of one of those cheesy horror movies that Tony had made him watch, and it was hovering over the drugged and restrained body of a teenager.

Steve watched in trepidation, flinching a bit as the second man turned the saw on and lowered it to Shadeslayer's upper arm, even if he could already guess what the result would be. Sure enough, there were no spurts of blood or panicked shrieks; the hum of the saw's motor turned into a screeching whine, and smoke began to billow up from where the blade met skin. The technician struggled with the saw for only a second or two before pulling it away and shutting it off – it spluttered to a stop, a haze of smoke still making its way out from under the casing and blurring the man's face. He smiled sheepishly at the camera and waved his hand a bit in an effort to dispel the smoke. "We may have already broken two of these things."

Steve frowned, but while he managed to work up some righteous anger at the two men— _What if something had gone wrong, and they ended up sawing his arm off?_ —he still couldn't help but feel a bit disturbed.

"I managed to stick a syringe needle in him," Natasha mentioned quietly.

"Sooo..." the camera man said, resuming focus on the semiconscious Shadeslayer. "Can't break any skin – aside from the IV needle, which, it's worth noting, we've had no problem with removing and reinserting – and can't form any bruises. We haven't exactly been trying anything with more force"— _than a circular saw?_ Steve thought—"but Fury's report did say something about stopping bullets, so... there's that. We're already running more tests," the camera began fumbling a bit, as though whoever was holding it was passing it off to someone, or trying to turn it around to show his face, "but if you have any theories, Dr. Banner, or want to come back to—"

The video ended prematurely. After a brief period of black, a large _replay_ arrow appeared in the center of the window.

 _Huh_. Steve's eyes didn't leave the screen, half expecting the video to resume playing with a clear, lengthy explanation as to what on earth was actually going on. An ambulance siren sounded outside, and he started a bit. He and Natasha had agreed to meet in his Brooklyn apartment, on the off chance that Tony would wander out of his labs and find them in the tower. _This sure changes things._

 _Does... does this change anything?_

"Text from Clint," Natasha said suddenly, tapping at the cell phone resting at the other end of the table.

"Where is he?"

"Close." She locked the phone, and then promptly turned the laptop back towards herself and resumed her searching.

"So... we're still good to go? I mean, this"—he gestured vaguely at the screen—"doesn't change anything?"

Natasha fixed him with her usual blank stare and said, "You think this should change anything?"

"No, no, I mean..." Steve sighed and leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "Of course not. It's just... it's getting even weirder."

"Not really." She seemed disinterested.

"Of course it is. Nat—" And despite the best of his intentions, his voice took on a desperate, pleading air. "He's a _person_. Maybe he's not human, but even Thor's skin would cut if you took a chop saw to it. That's how _skin_ works. So what exactly _is_ he?"

"You find _that_ ," she was raising an eyebrow now, and pointing at the screen, "weirder than the bulletproof thing?"

"But we had no idea what was going on with the bulletproof thing. Some sort of... I don't know, energy field? Something to do with the explosion? But _that_...?" His throat felt a bit like it was closing up. _Another 21st century thing? How could anyone find this natural?_

Natasha closed her eyes as though regaining her composure, then took a careful breath and said, "I thought we had an agreement."

"We did—"

"And the agreement is, no one deserves to be kept in captivity as a science experiment. Especially not a kid. Fury did his best, but now we've got the torch. _That_ was the agreement."

"I'm not disagreeing with you, Natasha. I'm not."

She watched him for another moment, and maybe some of his growing anxiety was visible in his expression, because she softened a bit and said, "It's going to be okay, Rogers."

He felt patronized, but still sent a silent prayer that she was right.

* * *

Clint came by having already been briefed on their "plan," which largely consisted of two steps: get into SHIELD headquarters, and get Shadeslayer out. If anything, Steve was just glad to have Natasha to work with – for some reason, he tended to think of her as being capable of just about anything she put her mind to.

Especially when paired with Clint, who, coincidentally, was so determined to get the boy out of harm's way that he had already been planning his own rescue mission before Natasha had even contacted him.

"Just can't trust SHIELD," he had said. "They might be the good guys, but they're not always right. Especially when they're choosing who to trust."

Steve answered the door to find the archer in street clothes, looking exhausted, and with a band-aid on his cheekbone.

"Coffee," he ordered, and then brushed past Steve with a cry of, "Na-aaat!"

"Well look who's awake," Steve heard Natasha reply as he closed the door.

"Tell me there's coffee."

"It's six o'clock in the evening, Clint."

"Did you bring the thing?" Steve asked. He was already on his way to the kitchen, where he had a pot of coffee chilling in the fridge, when Clint's sudden, wide-eyed stare stopped him in his tracks.

"What's wrong?"

"Holy— I almost— did you hear about Tony? From him, I mean?" He turned to Natasha. "Did he contact you two?"

"You were just there," Natasha said cautiously. "Did something happen?"

"You bet something happened. He'll probably call you, so don't tell him I told you."

"What?" Steve asked. "What happened?"

"The explosion, the one the kid was in the middle of? Apparently there was another one."

Natasha's body language didn't change but for a slight tensing of her shoulders and narrowing of her eyes, which Steve had learned to interpret as a sure sign that she'd been thrown drastically off course. "Say that again."

"There was another explosion, just like the one the kid was in, at the same time. I mean, Tony says with all the readings and shit, whatever caused them, they're just the same. Somewhere in the _M_ _iddle East_ , apparently." At this, he fixed Natasha with a significant look.

"Holy shit," she breathed.

"No kidding. Course, I didn't mention anything to Tony, it would have been Fury's job, but still."

"Shit," she repeated. "I didn't even think of that."

"Uh, guys?" Steve asked, wondering if he was supposed to be this lost. "What's going on here?"

The pair stared at each other for a few seconds, likely communicating telepathically, before Clint cleared his throat and turned to Steve, saying, "Yeah, uh, you're gonna need to know about all that."

Steve let his quizzical stare be Clint's prompt.

"So, long story short, SHIELD possibly found an inter-dimensional portal in Egypt."

"...Oh."

"Yeah. Well, they sent me to check it out. People were going missing, going crazy, there was this underground cave system – catacombs or something, you know, for tourists? But they shut it down a few weeks ago because everyone started hearing voices, saying it was haunted."

"And SHIELD thought that it was an... inter-dimensional portal?"

"No," Natasha clarified, "Egyptian scientists took one look at the energy readings they were getting and passed it onto higher-level government agencies. Eventually it made its way onto SHIELD's radar, and Clint was sent along with a team of researchers. It's just, all this at once..." She shook her head and turned away, hands on her hips. "Damn. I didn't even think that they might be related."

"Well, Tony didn't know the exact location for sure yet, but it's probably safe to assume that those caves have been blasted to smithereens."

"And that means that it's entirely likely that we've got another Shadeslayer on our hands," Natasha pointed out.

"Hang on," Steve butted in, because this wasn't fitting together in his mind as easily as it had in Natasha and Clint's. "You said that people in the caves were disappearing? Going crazy? Hearing voices, weeks ago?"

"Yeah," Clint said, "It's partly why they chose to send me. Figured maybe with my mechanical ears, I might be affected differently or something."

"Well then, how could they possibly be related? I mean, if Tony says that the explosions were the same then I believe him, but why wasn't SHIELD getting the same weird energy readings in the middle of an intersection in Manhattan a few weeks ago?"

That seemed to stump the pair of them, and a tense silence filled the room for several seconds. Then Clint shrugged, said, "Who knows? Figuring out shit like that is Bruce's job," and disappeared into the kitchen.

Steve looked at Natasha in something akin to exasperation, but she just shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she said lowly. "I still think Shadeslayer's innocent. If you're still willing to help me, Rogers, I say we stick to the plan."

"What plan," he laughed, but then smiled at her. "Yeah, I get it. We do what we have to do."

She rolled her eyes. "I appreciate your optimism."

"Cap's being optimistic?" Clint said, reappearing in the living room with Steve's jar of iced coffee. "Well, that's new."

"Did you bring the thing?" Steve asked again, realizing that he'd never actually gotten an answer the first time. He eyed the jar full of coffee – it was almost an entire pot's worth, but it was in Clint's hands. _Guess I'll be brewing another one tomorrow morning._

"Oh, yeah," he said, and gestured at the door behind him while taking a swig. "You mean the electromagnet thing? It's in the car. All the shit's in the car."

"Good," Natasha said. She turned and began zipping up the bag of supplies that she and Steve had packed earlier, which was now sitting on the sofa. "We need to get moving."

"It's not like they've got closing hours," Clint protested.

"But there's no point in waiting," Steve said. He grabbed the duffel bag from Natasha and slung it over his shoulder. "We move out now, we can get back in time to grab a take-out for dinner."

"Fine," Clint grumbled, and took another large swig of coffee. "Let's do this."

* * *

The first thing that Steve thought, when he let himself into Shadeslayer's room, was, _He looks a whole lot younger in person._

The only images that Steve had in his mind of the teen were the photos that Fury had taken, in the original goose-hunt file, and the clips that showed his face in the video that he and Natasha had watched. Somehow, neither of those sources had managed to capture the sheer vulnerability that Steve was seeing now, despite the low, blinking emergency light that cast everything in a sickly red hue. Natasha had done her job well – now all Steve needed to do was to get Shadeslayer out of the building and into Clint's waiting car, and the three of them could disappear without ever being picked up by any security cameras.

Shadeslayer made a low noise and Steve hurried over, duffel bag filled with tools clutched in his hand. Natasha had assumed, and she was probably right, that disabling the electricity in this area deadlocked the restraints.

"Hey," he whispered, although there was really no need for subtlety at this point, considering that every SHIELD agent within a five mile radius should be desperately trying to get their security systems back up and running, and not too terribly concerned with one drugged teenager sleeping in a lab somewhere deep in the basement.

 _Hopefully_.

Shadeslayer didn't respond, but his eyes were open, and Steve took that to be a good sign. "Hey," he said again. "If you can understand me, I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"

He hurried towards the inclined table that Shadeslayer was strapped to, trying to ignore the desperate, wide eyes following his every movement, and began examining the metal restraints. _Definitely don't look mechanical_ , he thought, or at least, he couldn't see a keyhole anywhere. _Maybe I could just... pull them off?_ It was worth a shot, so he set his bag down, flexed his gloved fingers a few times, and then grimly grabbed hold of the first cuff.

 _Here goes nothing._

He pulled, squeezing the metal as hard as he could with the leather gloves he was wearing, doing his best to avoid digging his fingers into Shadeslayer's wrist. After a few seconds he felt something give, but when he went back to readjust his grip and try to finish the job, he found that the cuff was still just as firmly attached as before.

 _Dang it_ , he thought, when it became obvious that whatever system was holding the cuff in place was too much for even his enhanced strength. _That sure would have simplified things._

He knew that SHIELD's precautions were probably justified, considering the kinds of people and creatures that the organization regularly imprisoned down here, but he still couldn't help but feel that this probably crossed the boundary from careful, to paranoid, to just plain excessive. The way the kid was looking at him now – so young and almost scared, mumbling something desperately under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer – it was hard to believe that the kid had been the cause of over a dozen casualties. Besides, even if he was enhanced, or something other than human, it wasn't as though he could possibly match Steve's strength, with or without the influence of sedatives – he was just too slim.

Steve had begun rifling through his bag, looking for something that he thought might be useful – a crowbar, maybe? He should probably save the plasma cutter as a last resort – when a sudden hiss of breath drew his attention back to where Shadeslayer was laying. The boy was still staring at him, lips forming soundless words, only now he was nodding his head towards his forearm and the IV drip that was taped there.

 _Oh, right. Of course._

Steve stood back up and ripped the tube out in one fluid motion. Something in the back of his mind wondered how the scientists had managed to insert the needle into the boy's skin – he vaguely remembered the technician in the video mentioning it, but not offering an explanation – but he pushed the thought aside and focused on the task before him.

"There," he said, and flung the tube out behind him. "That better? Can you speak?"

Shadeslayer blinked lazily up at him, once, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Fricai, losna edtha. Blöthr du vanyalí... sem huildar eka..."

His voice trailed off, and his face took on a pained expression. Steve sighed and went back to his bag. _Idiot. Of course it'll take a few minutes for the drugs to clear out._

He pulled out a crowbar and set it against the cuff he had been working on earlier. Natasha had only given him twenty minutes to get this done, and five of those he had spent getting to this room without being spotted by any frantic agents.

He had barely begun to dig at the cuff, trying to find a good location to set the end of the crowbar, when Shadeslayer said, "No. Wait."

His accent was foreign and vaguely Scottish. Steve lowered the crowbar cautiously, and leaned further over so that he was more directly in Shadeslayer's line of sight. "Yeah, of course. Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

He shook his head, and Steve could just find the ends of his pointed ears, mostly buried beneath his shaggy hair. "No. No. Just— If you mean to free me, I will release myself. I only need my strength."

Steve bit his lip and tried to find a delicate way of putting this. "Son, I'm sure you're pretty strong, but I don't think you're going to be able to pull off these cuffs. Let me try and help, alright?"

The kid shook his head again, but Steve went ahead and replaced the crowbar against the metal restraint. He huffed a breath, and then leaned forward, pressing all of his weight downward in an attempt to pop the cuff up and off of the table.

It only took a few seconds for him to concede to himself that it wasn't going to give – at least, not any more than it already had – but then, inexplicably, just as Shadeslayer muttered a faint " _Jierda_ ," Steve heard a loud _snap_ of metal breaking and the half of the cuff that he had been putting pressure on broke free of the table.

The sudden lack of resistance almost sent him to his knees, and his knuckles smacked against the side of the metal table. He hissed a breath as the crowbar went clattering across the floor, instinctively raising his hands to his chest and doubling over in pain.

 _Note to self: never punch a block of solid metal at full strength._

He felt a wave of heat fill his leather gloves – either blood or just pain, he couldn't be sure – and considered removing them, but then decided that he'd rather not view the damage just yet. Besides, his fingers were hurting enough that he suspected they were broken, and the prospect of having to work the gloves off wasn't just a poor idea in the face of this situation – it was downright terrifying.

"You're hurt," Shadeslayer said, quite unnecessarily in Steve's opinion. Steve didn't even look up – he was still seeing stars, and the floor beneath him was beginning to spin.

Natasha. He needed Natasha in here _now_ , because there was no way he was going to be able to put the crowbar back into the duffel bag, much less hold and use a plasma cutter. Now what felt like liquid fire was shooting up from his fingers to his elbows, and the knuckles themselves were going cold.

This was very, very bad.

Steve's phone was in his back pocket, but it was touch screen, and that once again brought back the problem of his gloves. _Maybe I could go back outside... if she's not already here, she must have gotten held up and gone straight to the car. It's only a two minute run away, if I go now..._

"Let me help you," a strained voice said, and Steve turned to find Shadeslayer reaching out to him with his one free hand.

"It's okay," Steve said painfully. "My friend is outside, she'll be able to help—"

"Let me see your hand."

Steve shook his head and began turning away. "We don't have time. I'm just going to—" And then he stopped, because Shadeslayer was still holding his hand out towards Steve, and of _course_...

"Here," Steve said, and quickly maneuvered himself beside the table. "There's a phone in my back pocket, would you grab it?"

"What..." the kid muttered, but managed to pull Steve's phone out of his pocket. "Is this some sort of—"

"Press the button on the bottom," Steve instructed briskly. The pain in his fingers hadn't lessened, but realizing how short on time he was had spiked his adrenaline. "Okay, now touch the screen on the left side, and swipe over to the right."

Shadeslayer did as he was asked, balancing the phone against his chest as best he could. "Is it magic?" He asked.

Steve didn't have time for this. "See where it says 'Emergency,' down there? Tap on that."

Shadeslayer spent a frustrating few seconds staring at the screen, before finally hovering a finger over the correct location. "Here?"

"Yes." Steve fought to keep his voice patient as he then instructed the kid through dialing Natasha's phone number and putting it on speaker phone. As it rang, Steve hiked his sleeve up with his teeth to check his watch.

Twelve minutes in. Eight guaranteed minutes left. He could do this.

"Steve," Natasha's voice said. "I'm right up in A wing. Do you have the kid?"

"Get here, _now_. I'm gonna need you to do my job for me."

"Give me a minute and a half. I'll be there. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Steve said, even as he instinctively reached for the phone, which had slipped a bit from its resting position on Shadeslayer's chest, and a fresh wave of pain shot through both his arms. "But I've wasted a heck of a lot of time, and I'm kind of stuck."

There was a pause with only static coming through the phone, and then Natasha said, "Give me three minutes, and I can buy you ten more," and Steve had never been more grateful to have such a gifted and capable super spy as a friend.

"Hurry, and be safe," Steve said, and then Natasha ended the call. Figuring that he should probably let Clint know that they were going to be late, Steve instructed Shadeslayer on calling the archer, (who wasn't too happy about the change in plans, but agreed to continue waiting on the roof as a lookout), and then had the boy return his phone to his jacket pocket. He then shouldered the door open, hissing when his hand brushed against the frame, and stood scanning the empty hallway for Natasha.

"Thank you for this," the boy said suddenly, and more clearly than he had spoken as of yet. "I owe you a great debt."

Steve glanced back at him from over his shoulder. _Young, young, so very young._

"You really don't," he said, cradling his hands against his chest, and did his best to smile through his strong urge to cry.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry. I have no excuses. Not sure how I feel about this one, so please feel free to leave comments. Thanks for sticking with me you nerds.~

* * *

Eragon could speak, and he could move and strain at his bonds, and, most importantly, he could _think –_ even if those thoughts had a heavy consistency that he usually associated with lack of sleep – but he still could not find his magic.

" _Jierda_ ," he tried again, and grunted when nothing happened, frustrated at how helpless he still was. When the man had been pulling on his other bond, Eragon had been sure that whatever power the word contained had been enough to break the cuff. Perhaps the drugs weren't blocking his magic, but merely lessening it? _Or perhaps simply uttering the true name of_ break _was enough to will the metal to do so, or to provide that man with the strength needed?_ he asked, not sure if such a thing was possible. He received no answer.

Eragon didn't have the luxury of sifting through his memories of Oromis's lessons. He craned his eyes to look down his body, noting with mild surprise that he wore no tunic, and flexed the muscles of his left arm a few times, testing his strength. Then he took a breath and pulled his wrist against the cuff as hard as he could.

He could feel his skin bruising – his wards against minor injuries were surely long since depleted – but he carried on, using all of his strength, and then muttered "Jierda" once more.

Nothing happened.

"Bar _z_ _û_ _l_!" he yelled, and let his arm relax back against the metal table. In his peripheral vision he could see the man turn to look at him from his place by the doorway, startled, and Eragon cringed a bit.

"Is there no key?" he asked.

"'Fraid not."

"The bonds are magical?" Eragon confirmed, just to be sure.

The man paused, then shifted his stance. Eragon couldn't make out his facial expression.

"No, they're electronic."

This is what the one-eyed man had been trying to explain to him the last time they had spoken, but, as best Eragon could tell, an "electronic" device was merely anything that had been enchanted such that any non-magical person could use it. The energy came from huge stores hidden somewhere in the walls, and any number of things – a button, usually, or a switch – could call it forth.

He couldn't understand why these humans were so determined to explain this away as anything but magic, but he supposed that he shouldn't be making judgments on a culture he knew so little about.

"And there is no way for you to... turn them off?"

The man shook his head. "No. No, it's... hard to explain."

 _Now_ that _is something I have been hearing often as of late. If only..._

Eragon shook his head fondly – at least, as best he could with the metal restraint still loosely holding his forehead in place – as he remembered his last rescue from a prison such as this. Gil'ead had been the place he had found Arya, of course, and first battled Durza, but for now he remembered Murtagh's ridiculous disguise and Saphira tearing off the roof of the banquet room.

 _Saphira,_ he called, longing for some ounce of comfort.

He listened closely to the resulting silence. It felt tangible, like a wave of hot air pressing in on him from all sides, forcing its way down his throat and into his chest. He felt dissociated, somehow, like he was watching from afar as his breathing picked up and his heart leapt into his throat. He clenched his fists. He closed his eyes. He let his chest fill up with silence.

The man was saying something, but Eragon's force of mind was suddenly concentrated on a single thought, or emotion, or whatever it was that was consuming him. He felt a rush of energy that had nothing to do with his magic, and grimly battled through the tangled borders of his consciousness.

" _Jierda_ ," he spat out, like a curse, and all the energy in his consciousness lined up like a spear and drove its way out through the haze of his drugged thoughts. He flinched at the accompanying shriek of metal as each and every bond flew open, leaving him free to sit up. Eragon did so carefully, barely noticing the drop in his strength, tears for some reason pricking at the corners of his eyes. He swung his legs over the side of the table.

He was trembling, just a bit.

"Jesus," he heard, and turned to find Agent Romanoff now in the room, the dim red lights displaying her face in a grotesque approximation of the beauty Eragon knew she held. She and the man, now that Eragon was free to take a closer look, were stood together like warriors and watching him like a pair of demons.

"You two know each other, then," Eragon said after a somewhat awkward pause, his voice catching only a bit, and painfully eased himself into a standing position. He ached.

"How..." The man trailed off.

"The hell did you do that?" finished Agent Romanoff. If Eragon had to guess, he would have said that she sounded frightened, even if up to this point his main impression of the woman had been one of a distinct lack of emotions.

Eragon didn't have time to educate two humans on the subject of magic, not if they didn't already know who he was. He began stumbling towards them, trying to wake up his muscles. "I suppose that would be a yes. Shall we go?"

"But—"

"Yes," Agent Romanoff interrupted. She blinked a few times and shook her head, then reached forward to catch Eragon as his legs gave out. He instinctively clung unto her arm, and she shifted such that her shoulder was supporting his weight. "We need to go, now. Clint's waiting."

"Right," the man muttered, and hurried to Eragon's other side, assuming a position similar to Agent Romanoff's. Eragon relaxed in their grips, and allowed his feet to drag along the stone floor as they hurried out into the corridor.

"Those lights," he began as they moved down the hall, referring to the dull red glow that seemed to come and go as it pleased. His voice was hoarse. "How does it—"

"Later," Agent Romanoff interrupted, clearly familiar with Eragon's questions.

 _Like the_ Erisdar, Eragon thought, studying the walls as they passed. _I wonder if they are fashioned in the same way._

Another few steps. "Where are we? Some kind of—"

Agent Romanoff sighed out a "Later," but Eragon began to slip downwards on his right side – the man was too tall to be carrying Eragon effectively, really – and pressed up with one of his toes in an effort to be of at least some use.

The man groaned, suddenly and painfully.

"Rogers?" Agent Romanoff asked curtly, and Eragon froze as the three of them stumbled to a halt. "Cap, what—"

"Nothing." The man readjusted his grip, being careful, Eragon noticed, to use the heel and sides of his hands rather than his fingers.

 _I must have bumped them,_ Eragon thought, and felt unreasonably guilty for someone who had both dealt out and received numerous injuries that were far worse than a few broken fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "If you would like, I could—"

"We need to keep moving," the man grunted, which was what Eragon expected, and all the better considering that he doubted if he had enough strength or focus to actually perform a healing spell.

 _What have they done to me?_ Eragon asked Saphira, who didn't answer.

He felt worse, now, even worse than he had while lying on the table before the man had removed the needle from his arm. They continued moving, and Eragon poked curiously at the haze surrounding his thoughts. Something was pounding in his head, something to do with the sudden change in elevation and all this motion after so long stagnant.

 _Fresh air, is what will do it,_ said his uncle's voice in his head, and it was from a time that Eragon had been ten years old and newly recovered from a month of a sickness that might have killed him. He had been wearing a tunic of Roran's, the sleeves of which fell well past his hands, and leaning heavily on the table. _Just take some deep breaths, now,_ Garrow had said, steering Eragon with a gentle hand on his back. _The dizziness will pass. You just need some air in your lungs, boy. Take it slow, now._ _Let's get you outside._

Eragon's head had been pounding, pounding, pounding. He had barely made it to the threshold.

Eragon tightened his grip on his rescuers' arms and swallowed. "I'm going to be sick," he muttered with certainty.

"Swallow it," Agent Romanoff instructed, as she lessened their pace.

* * *

He was not sick, as it turned out, though his nausea didn't abate, and he was barely conscious by the time the blond man kicked open a heavy-set metal door leading outside. It was cold, and Eragon was barefoot and shirtless – he instinctively began reaching for his magic, before considering his exhaustion, thinking better of it, and calling upon Saphira.

She did not come.

"Should have taken the time to throw together some comms," the man said, halting their march to look out upon the dark, empty space before them.

"This way," Agent Romanoff said, and steered them to the left. Eragon could just make out muffled shouting from the other direction.

"How do you know?" The man didn't seem particularly surprised.

"He'll be there." A few more steps, and then she added, "Besides, hooking our comms up to a private channel at just the same time SHIELD's defenses are expertly hacked might look a little suspicious, even to Garis's posse of dumbasses."

Eragon couldn't help himself. "What are"—he took a breath—"comms?"

"Later," groaned Agent Romanoff, even as the man said, "Don't worry about it, son."

Eragon huffed. _It's not as though I have any need to know what is going on, of course. I suppose I'm simply meant to trust everyone on blind faith, regardless of whether or not they feel the need to explain all of these things to me._

No sympathy was forthcoming. His thoughts echoed through his mind like a shout down a ravine.

 _...Oh._

Oh _._

And all at once he was full of that silence again, that emptiness of his mind, only this time Eragon registered it as shudders of panic, racing through his empty, _empty_ body and mind like so many coursing rivers. He took one great, shuddering breath, and then found himself unable to release it.

 _Saphira!_ he screamed, not caring if an enemy spellcaster heard him, because he was empty and alone and helpless to do anything about it. She didn't respond.

He tried to breathe and choked.

He was alone? He had been alone all along, only too slow and stupid to realize it. He stretched his mind out, as far as it would go, up into the sky and across the darkened ground, which only served to augment his feeling of isolation when she was still nowhere to be found. His face began to grow hot and his limbs went cold, and numb, and without the support of his arms he slumped abruptly to the ground. He tried to breathe again and couldn't. There was something lodged in his throat.

He had forgotten. How could he have forgotten? What had they—

"Son?" the man asked, sounding worried. He and Agent Romanoff worked to gently sit Eragon down. The world was going blurry. Eragon tried to breathe again, and ended up making a loud noise that sounded far too much like a sob for his liking. The air around him turned stiflingly hot and started drumming on his skull in rhythm with his heartbeat. He clutched at his chest, where a hot, prickling sensation was spreading across the area where his lungs used to be. His mouth gaped open, his body growing increasingly desperate for the air that would not come.

The man's face was filling Eragon's vision, mouthing something inaudible that looked like _Breathe_.

 _I'm trying_ , Eragon told him, but it came out as another sob.

Eragon's vision started to swim, and his panic increased further still when it occurred to him that he was _dying_ , here and now, helpless, alone in this foreign land. Tremors wracked his limbs, starting at his chest and radiating outwards, and Eragon curled in on himself and squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to _go_ , to _move_ , to escape this fortress and find a way back to Saphira, but no matter how he tried to pry his arms open and deepen his breaths, his body continued to betray him.

There were hands on him now. He paid them no mind.

* * *

When Eragon awoke, it was to a world in motion. He registered the press of something soft against his cheek, a low rumbling hum filling his ears, and a warm breeze playing against his bare chest. He was lying on his side, his right arm beneath him and completely numb. Wherever he was, it was shaking with vibrations that kept him bouncing lightly against something solid at his back.

Waking from a sound sleep was disorienting in a way that Eragon had completely forgotten. He took a long moment to collect his thoughts, considering feigning more sleep, before his curiosity got the better of him and he cracked his eyes open.

It was mostly dark, but a beam of light passed over the area in front of him and over his face – and then another, and another, and another. He shifted onto his back, trying to free his arm, and found the backs of two seats, a ceiling, and—

His _bare_ feet, which were currently resting in Agent Romanoff's lap.

Eragon started upwards, and then cringed as pins and needles shot up his numb arm. He shuffled backwards as quickly as he could, drawing his legs into his chest, just as the little room was filled with a chorus of concerned voices.

"Hey," said Agent Romanoff, waving a hand to quiet the other speakers and watching him carefully. The shifting light continued, throwing her face into an ever-morphing pattern of shadows. "Hey, Shadeslayer, listen to me. You're safe."

Eragon had to look away. "Forgive me," he mumbled, trying desperately not to blush. He used his functioning arm to rub his feet self-consciously. _Surely I didn't put myself in that position. Did she_ mean _for_ —

"You alright back there, son?" came a voice Eragon recognized, and he turned forward in his seat to find the same man who had worked to free him earlier – the one who had broken his hands. There was another man up front, too, one whom Eragon didn't recognize.

"I—" Eragon began, and then, "Where am I?"

"Interstate 87, headed towards Brooklyn," answered Agent Romanoff gently. "You've been asleep for over an hour."

An hour? Strange how quickly time could pass when one wasn't aware of anything. Eragon began moving his arm in painstaking circles, gently opening and closing his fist. _When did I grow so used to having waking dreams?_

"You passed out," the unfamiliar man said cheerily, without turning his head.

"We're getting you somewhere safe," said the man who had broken his hands.

" _Getting_ me…?" Eragon wondered, bewildered, and looked out the darkened window.

Oh.

Well, that explained the lurching feeling in his stomach.

He stared, transfixed, at the passing land of lights for a few moments. His arm was mostly back to normal by the time the man with the broken hands, who was sitting directly in front of him and twisted in his seat, quietly asked, "You okay?"

"I... Yes, of—" He shook his head, looked out the window, then back at the man. "How are we moving so quickly? How can—what is this?"

Agent Romanoff laughed under her breath, and the two men shared a glance. Eragon resolutely ignored his sudden desire to filter through their stray thoughts.

"It's a… car," said Agent Romanoff carefully, her face still betraying the hints of a smile. "A kind of vehicle. It's run by burning fuel."

"It's not magic," added the man with the broken hands. It occurred to Eragon that such was still his only real identification for the man, as while in the prison they had never been formally introduced, and his curiosity was replaced by a fresh wave of guilt.

"My name is Eragon," he said, moving forward and reaching tentatively for the man. "If you'd like, I could help you with your hands." _Maybe._

The other man leaned his head towards Eragon without actually turning from the front of the vehicle. "Eragon?" he asked. "Thought you were like, _The Deadly Shadow_ or something."

"Shadeslayer," Agent Romanoff corrected dryly.

 _My feet were in her lap._

"That's the one."

"I—" Eragon hesitated, but surely now there was no harm in sharing his name? As best he could tell, he and Saphira were entirely unknown in these parts. "My name is Eragon," he repeated. "Shadeslayer is merely a title."

"You mean like your code-name?" asked the man with the broken hands.

"Your superhero name," suggested the other man, who, Eragon realized, seemed to be controlling the car. He was unsuccessfully fighting a grin. "You've got a superhero name."

"I… what?"

"Don't worry, we've all got one," he continued, looking extremely amused. "Like, I'm Clint, AKA Hawkeye." He clapped a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him. "You got Steve, AKA Captain America, and Nat"—here he gestured with a thumb at Agent Romanoff—"AKA Black Widow. You can tell she's badass because that's what she uses when she signs up for all her couponing websites."

Agent Romanoff – or Nat, or Black Widow – casually slapped his hand away. "Nice job keeping our aliases confidential there, bud."

"But—I mean— _medieval superheroes_." He was grinning and reaching all the way behind him, trying to nudge Agent Romanoff's knee without looking. "Think about it, Nat. Vigilante Knights of the Round Table. Sir Lancelot, swinging through the streets of Camelot to pull cats out of trees." He let out a bark of laughter, pulled his hand back when Agent Romanoff – Nat? – managed to get a hold of his thumb. "Is there a SHIELD? Ooh! Does King Arthur wear an eyepatch?"

Eragon had several shields, and he knew of a man in the Varden who wore an eyepatch, but suspected that mentioning as much would only serve to make him look foolish.

"Clint," Nat chastised.

"Yeah, I guess it's more like _Lord of the Rings_ , anyway." Clint's eyes met Eragon's through a mirror situated in front of him. "Hey, kid, you really an elven prince?"

It was all too much, and Eragon spent a few seconds with his mouth open as he tried to catch up. "I… you thought I was _royalty_?"

Clint just laughed, while Nat rolled her eyes and said to Eragon, "He's joking. Ignore him."

"It's a fair point, though," said the other man – _A captain_ , Eragon remembered – as he craned his neck around the seat to look behind him. "I mean, you don't exactly look like a typical human."

Eragon made an aborted motion towards his ears, stopping himself from running his fingers over their tips. _Must I really explain it all to them?_ _Surely the less they know about me, the better._ And anyway, his lineage should hardly be any of their concern.

"I suppose you could think of me as an elf, yes."

A beat of silence. Then the captain asked incredulously, "Wait… really?"

"Like… an elf?" asked Clint. "Like an honest-to-God _elf_?"

"Well... yes." He couldn't fathom why this would shock them so, when he so clearly shared a likeness with one. _A real elf wouldn't have quite so much stubble, I suppose,_ he thought, rubbing distractedly at his neck. _Or, rather, any at all. Or perhaps they've merely never seen one in person?_

The two men up front looked at each other, then away, and then Clint let out one gleeful "Ha!" loud enough to make Eragon flinch, and threw his head back against his seat as he dissolved into laughter. "Its... oh my God, he's... Nat! Oh my God, Tony's never going to call me _Legolas_ again!"

"Jesus," muttered Nat. "Of all the things..."

"Hey kid, you into archery?"

"We have more pressing issues," the captain butted in before Eragon could respond. He gave Clint a stern look, which Clint ignored completely, and then looked back at Eragon and said, "Like where you came from."

"Alagaësia," Eragon replied easily, glad that he was able to, before remembering the conversations that he had had with the one-eyed man. "Or... well... I'm actually not sure I know, exactly."

"Somewhere that's not on Earth?"

"I... don't believe so?"

"Did Fury know?" asked Nat, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. She was staring at Eragon like... well, a bit like Arya tended to, patiently and seriously.

Eragon swallowed. "I'm... not sure. Do you mean the dark-skinned man who spoke with me?"

Nat tilted her head at him a bit, then slowly said, "...Right."

Eragon shrugged, tried not to bite the inside of his cheek. "He told me that he had never heard of the land I come from. And"— _blast, it already feels like years ago_ —"that he would try to find a way for me to return... but not personally, I believe? There were— he said he knew two men who may be able to help me, and that he would, ah, offer to them the task, immediately."

Which, it occurred to Eragon, meant that he likely wouldn't be stuck here much longer, if only he could find Fury and these men. His panicky episode from earlier now seemed to have lost all its meaning.

 _Don't think about it, you dúmbr brak..._

"Did he say who they were?" asked the captain.

"No," replied Eragon, "just that I would need to stay hidden while they worked. But then..." _What had happened?_

"He didn't have the authority to do that, to keep you hidden," Nat said, as though she had read his mind. "He was arrested for it."

"Oh." Eragon thought vaguely that he had already known that.

They sat for a few moments in silence, and then Eragon was jerking his head back up and his eyes open. He glanced at Nat out of the corner of his eyes. She was smirking at him.

"We have a _lot_ of questions for you," she said. "So why don't you get some sleep, and we'll wake you up when we get to Steve's apartment?"

Steve, that was the captain's name. Eragon didn't know what an apartment was. "How far away is it? Or rather," he amended, glancing out the window again, "how long will it take?"

"Clint?"

"Hour and a half, give or take," Clint said over his shoulder. "We hit Jersey in thirty."

"We should stop for food, too," said Steve. "I don't have much."

"I thought we decided we were ordering pizza?"

"Are pizza places even open this late?"

"We'll figure that out when we get off the interstate," said Nat, and then to Eragon, "Go ahead and get some sleep. You look exhausted."

He wasn't, really. He felt better than he had in days, and besides, he needed to figure out where he was, and who these people were, and the next step in finding Saphira. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nat had already turned away to look out her own window, and it occurred to him that he hadn't the faintest idea what he would say.

His mind wandered back to the prison from which Steve and Nat had helped him escape. He could barely picture it, his memories taking on a hazy sheen when he tried, but even vaguely recalling the panic he had felt and the way his body had reacted was enough to send his stomach up somewhere near his mouth.

 _Blast it,_ he thought, and it sounded a bit like Roran. _Get it together, Eragon. A rider is only as powerful as he is when he's separated from his dragon, you know that._ _You're acting like a child._

No one responded, and Eragon quickly pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, turning his head away in the hopes that no one in the car would notice.

 _I can do this._ It wouldn't be long before he'd be back in Alagaësia, and Saphira would chide him for ever losing faith. And if this land was strange and a bit overwhelming, he could handle it. He'd faced worse.

He pulled his hand away, took a deep breath, and went to twist Aren around on his finger. After an initial jolt of confusion when it was not there, it occurred to Eragon that if his captors took his tunic and boots, he could hardly have expected them leave him his jewelry.

With a sinking feeling in his chest, he asked, "Did any of you retrieve my belongings?"

"We'll get you some clothes," Steve assured him, and Eragon had to physically restrain himself from groaning. He buried his face in his hands.

"My sword, my belt, and my ring – are they still at the prison?" _Of course they are. Idiot, how could I have forgotten Brisingr?!_

"Actually, your sword might still be with Tony – does Tony still have his sword?"

"We'll get them back, don't worry," said Nat. She rested a hand on Eragon's shoulder and he stiffened, hyper-aware of the contact on his bare skin. "Did you say your belt?"

"The belt of Beloth the Wise is a priceless relic. As is my ring." He took a deep breath, willing the panic not to return. "It's my own fault, I'm such a fool, it somehow just slipped my mind— "

"We'll get you your damn belt, calm down," said Clint distractedly. "Hey, this my exit?"

"Not even close," Steve replied.

"For now, let's just focus on getting you out of harm's way." Nat rubbed her fingers lightly across his shoulder, once, before dropping her hand.


End file.
